#supernatural hurt/comfort fic

[sammyluvr]

my hands are yours — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, hurt/comfort, angst, injury, canon violence, demons, possession, feelings of guilt, concussion, blood mentions, pet names (honey, baby), no y/n, not proofread, 2.8K words. requested !

summary : sam patches you up, ever guilty, after meg attacks you while possessing his body.

for parts of it, meg made him watch. she kept him conscious as she killed a fellow hunter, forced him to see parts of the encounter with jo and the punches she threw at dean. she went on a chaos-inducing, bloody spree with his body and his hands and she made him watch.

as for the worst part, meg had spent a long while debating how to make it as horrible to sam as she could. does she make him watch the whole while? show him glimpses? or keep him in the dark only to find out later what his hands have done.

she decides that any option would do, so she chooses the in between. for just a moment, she grants sam the sight of you, bloodied and bruised under his body, red on his hands. then it goes dark.

✶.◟

the second sam wakes, finally in control of himself and rid of meg, he’s disoriented. he looks at dean, then bobby. and for some reason you’re not in the room with them.

“sammy?” dean calls out, nose bleeding and bruises starting to form on the side of his face. it all comes back to him and he scrambles to stand up.

“where are they?” he breathes out, panicking already. neither dean nor bobby has to ask who you’re referring to.

bobby shrugs. “they weren’t answering the phone. we didn’t have time to find them before, ya know, you and that demon fucker showed up.”

“dammit,” sam curses, searching his pockets for his phone. he calls you with shaky hands; you’re on speed dial. bobby and dean watch with concern and sam’s face crumbles when you don’t pick up. neither question when sam crosses the room on quick, unsteady feet to grab the nearest computer. he types furiously, and they figure he’s tracking your phone. sam pays them no attention, none at all when he finds your location, or grabs the keys to the impala or rushes out the door.

he doesn’t make it to the car before dean stops him, stumbling a little from all the pain when he grabs sam’s wrist. sam whirls around and almost shoves dean before remembering that he’s injured. instead, sam pulls away easily.

“they’re hurt,” he practically growls, but there’s a hint of pleading behind the aggression.

“exactly,” dean counters, “you’re too freaked to drive.” 

sam looks dean up and down with a quick flick of his eyes. “i’m fine. you’re worse off than me, just– just keep calling them. so they know it’s really me.”

according to your phone gps, you’re only twenty minutes away. halfway through the achingly silent drive, his phone rings. he picks it up in a panic when he sees your caller id on the screen.

“baby?” he breathes into the phone, chest tight and eyes already teary.

“sam,” you sigh out. he wishes your voice weren’t distorted through the phone, but he’s sure he must’ve heard you in worse shape before. you’ve got to be alright, based on the way you say his name. “dean called me.”

“yeah.. it’s me, honey.” he swallows thickly, his fingers tightening around the wheel. “fuck, i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry, baby.” 

“i know,” you whisper, sounding tired. that frightens him. “but it wasn’t you. it really wasn’t you. i know that now, and i knew it then. you gotta remember it wasn’t you.”

sam has to really focus to keep his eyes on the road. he has to blink away tears so that his vision is clear enough to drive safely. luckily the dark highway is almost completely empty. he can’t manage a proper response to your reassurance, so he changes the subject.

“honey.. where are you, baby? the map doesn’t show anything near you except the road.” he’s apprehensive as he asks, afraid to hear the answer despite already knowing it. you cringe softly, knowing too that he won’t like it.

“i’m in my car,” you murmur. you’re sounding more and more tired the longer he speaks with you. “on the side of the road.” sam doesn’t know what to say to that. it sends a pang through his chest. he doesn’t know exactly what happened, but he can imagine it. he can imagine meg finding you, cutting you off on your way to bobby. calling you and telling you to pull over; you haven’t heard that he’s possessed yet. you think it’s him on the phone. you wait just a minute for him on the side of the road. she pulls over next to you and comes out. most likely, you throw yourself into his arms, worried sick. he can imagine the way you’d cup his face and check him over, asking where he’s been.

then he imagines that meg says something subtly horrible to you. your face twists in confusion. then meg gets really mean. talks like him and tells you he doesn’t really love you, and that’s when you know it’s not him. that’s when she hurts you, beats you into the grass on the side of the road. sam knows that part because, in the glimpse that meg gave him, you were lying in the green, little flecks of red decorating the grass and blending in with dirt. and your eyes weren’t open

so you must’ve woken, mind fuzzy with pain and alone and rattled after seeing sam be the one to beat you until the work went dark. and that means you crawled or stumbled however you could, back to your car. he wonders how long you lay in the grass. how badly she injured you, how much it hurts right now. 

he comes back to you. “okay,” he whispers, voice taut and pained. “i’m coming to get you. i’m… i’ll be there soon, baby. just stay awake til then, okay?”

“i know,” you mumble. “i won’t fall asleep.” a soft pause. well, soft enough for you, but stiff and unforgiving to sam. “how long?”

“just under ten minutes now, honey,” he assures you, cursing silently at the way your voice slowly starts to reveal to him your state. it’s weak and tired and tells him that you’re missing him, wanting him closer, wanting his arms around you. you’re still seeking his comfort.

he can’t bear to hang up the phone, even when neither of you really have anything left to say. or really, anything that’s left you can get yourself to say. for you, it’s because you’re running out of energy; sam’ll feel so horrible, but you’re starting to think his fists to your face a couple times has given you a mild concussion. and for sam, he can’t get the right words out. everything gets stuck in his throat. he knows you don’t want to hear apologies from him, because none of it was his fault. but he’s guilt ridden and a little panicked because you only talk when he softly calls your name through the phone just to be sure you’re awake.

when he finally spots your car, it takes everything in him not to speed up to an unreasonable pace. but he peels off to the side of the road with a screech of tires and a worse than haphazard parking job. you’re in the passenger’s seat; you didn’t even try to make it to the driver’s. the door of the impala hangs open as sam runs straight to you.

he feels sick when he opens your car door, crouching down and reaching with sorry hands for your bloodied face. you look at him with soft eyes and a tired smile that he feels he most certainly doesn’t deserve. his stomach lurches at the sight of your blood and bruises and exhausted limbs.

“hey, honey,” he murmurs the second the door is open and you can hear him. “i’m here, it’s me, baby. i’m so sorry–” his fingers tense up just centimeters from your face. it’ll hurt if he touches you there, so he drops them to cup the side of your neck and shoulder. even then, his touch is feather light, as careful as he could get. “i’m sorry.”

“please don’t be,” you whisper back, just as softly, not as sadly. you’re just glad to see him, comforted to have him back. “don’t be sorry.” you watch him, soaking him and in presence. there’s no fear, no hesitation, no worry to have him close. his knuckles are split from making you bleed, but all you’d like to do is kiss them better.

the absolute trust and unadulterated affection that you watch him with could kill him. he knows that, logically, he’s inculpable in the crime of making you bleed. but he can’t seem to convince himself of that. he’s very sorry, and he’s sorry for that too, because he knows you wish he wasn’t.

“alright,” he breathes. “let’s get you out of here. bring you back to bobby’s to patch you up.” he almost moves to scoop you up into his arms to carry you to the impala, but thinks better of it. instead, he leans in and presses a kiss to an unbruised spot on your forehead. your eyes look a little unfocused and it frightens him. “gonna park the impala, i’ll be right back.”

“okay,” you sigh. admittedly, you don’t know exactly what he means in your hazy state, but he says he’ll be right back, so it is okay.

sam only takes the time to park and lock up the impala because dean would kill him otherwise. he makes it a quick job, and slides into your car’s front seat. the keys aren’t in sight when he glances around.

“baby?” he calls softly, meeting your eyes. you’re already watching him with sweet eyes. you had let out a little gasp of pain when turning your neck to look at him. “do you have the car key?” 

you blink and stare at him for a moment. then you give a quiet hum. “mhmm.” your hand isn’t too shaky when you reach into your jacket pocket and pull your keys out. he reaches right out to gently take them from you so you don’t have to move any further.

“thank you, honey,” he murmurs. he sets the keys in the cup holder, then twists in the seat to get as close to you as he can. sam grabs the seat belt and pulls it across your chest, buckling it and carefully rearranging your arms to be a bit more comfortable. his lips brush over your tender cheekbone, and your eyes drift closed for a second. oftentimes, he kisses you on the cheek or the forehead before bed. your lips too, of course. but it’s not time to sleep yet, so you set your hand on his and give a little squeeze before letting go.

his jaw clenches a little when your hand moves away. he doesn’t want to have to do anything but look at you. look after you. he’d much rather watch you than the road. to be sure your eyes don’t droop too much, in case you come to a bump and it jolts you and causes any pain.

sam settles for driving with one hand on the wheel and the other holding yours. you play lightly, weakly with his fingers and it makes his heart ache. he thinks about the way he can feel his heart pound in his chest. it feels different after being possessed, but he doesn’t think he could explain how.

loving you is the same, though. the fact that his heart pounds and pounds for you doesn’t change one bit. you’ve always made him feel like that saying of one’s heart leaping from their chest could really come true.

he has to softly implore you not to fall asleep a few times during the drive. he’s convinced now that you’re a bit concussed, and it terrifies him. no, it horrifies him. that the force of his hands could do that to you. and yet you affectionately fiddle with his fingers like you trust him more than anything.

sam is so soft when he draws you up onto his arms, not bothering to close the car door as he carries you to bobby’s front door. he winces when your cheek meets his shoulder and all the jostling causes you to gasp a little in pain.

and at the door, he pauses for just a second, only because he hates to raise his voice above a comforting murmur around you right now. but he has to be loud enough for dean or bobby to hear him. then the door swings open before he makes a sound, and he sighs in relief. they must’ve heard your car as it pulled into the gravelly driveway. sam ignores them both as he carries you straight to the spare bed, cradling you close and hating having to let you go, even when it means you’ll be much more comfortable on the mattress.

“there we go,” he mutters, half to himself once you’re settled. he feels dean hovering in the doorway, so he turns and tosses him the keys to the impala. “the car’s at the coordinates i left up on the computer,” he says simply, not waiting for any sort of acknowledgement from dean before turning back to you.

he finds the nearest first aid kit, drags up a chair, and commits himself to being the softest he can for you. a hard life has toughened his fingertips, but they are gentle as they erase the blood from your skin and spread ointment over your cuts and bruises. his voice is tender and quiet as he bandages you and says things like i love you and sorry, for the sting of alcohol. his lips are sweet on your forehead. 

“does your head hurt?” he asks softly, already preparing a few pills for the pain. he’s been working in partial darkness to not disturb you.

“yeah,” you answer through a huff of breath, too out of it to lie. your head pounds.

“okay,” he whispers. “we’re gonna have to be real careful. you might have a concussion. so i’m gonna have you take some painkillers, then get lots of rest, alright baby?”

“yeah. feels funny,” you slur quietly, not even sounding upset or anything. just tired, maybe even pleased because you’ve got sam fussing over you in the sweetest way possible. sam’s jaw clenches, but he indulges your tone because you’d rather he not worry so much.

“funny, huh?,” he says as though he’s smiling softly at you. his eyebrows give away his frown, though. “can we sit up for a second to take these pills?” you’d really rather not, so you give him a little pout. you’re just so tired. that look on your face, a little grumpy and stubborn, shows him that you really are a little fuzzy in the head. it’s adorable, certainly, but concerning to him just the same. he slides an arm under your shoulders, leaning over you so that your head lolls lightly onto his shoulder.

sam makes sure you don’t have to exert an ounce of effort to get you up; you lean fully against his body to stay upright. if you thought about it hard enough, you’d certainly be capable of holding yourself up, but he doesn’t give you the chance to have to think about it at all. you’re comfiest like this, so you’ll stay that way. if it didn’t hurt your head, you’d peer up through your eyelashes to catch a glimpse of his pretty face while it’s so close to yours.

he brings his hand to your mouth, tapping your chin gently when you don’t react accordingly. “open a little for me, please,” he whispers. you follow his instructions, just a bit mindlessly because he makes it easy to let yourself be taken care of. he places a pill on your tongue, then grabs a water bottle and brings it to your lips. it takes you two tries to swallow the pill, but the second one he gives you goes down a bit easier. “there you go,” he murmurs, carefully lowering you back into the bed. his big hand cradles the back of your head before settling you into the pillow.

he watches your eyes drift closed before he’s even said the words, you can rest now. his hands find yours.

the hands that hurt you weren’t his. this, you know. the hands that love you and patch you right back up are his and only his. so you hold them over your stomach when he’s done with it all and, eyes still closed, mumble, “i love you. i love your hands, sam.”

the hands that hurt you weren’t his. this, he has trouble accepting. the hands that love you and patch you right back up are not only his, but yours too. so he lets you hold them over your stomach when he’s done with it all and tells you, “they’re yours, honey. ’m all yours.”

[prentissluvr]

dead eyes — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, hurt/comfort, established relationship, canon typical violence, blood, death, weapons, and monsters (shifter), reader has a panic attack, character death (in a dream), nightmares, crying, kisses, unedited, 2.4K words. requested !

summary : killing a shifter with sam's appearance scares you to the point of a panic attack.

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

his dead eyes. you shouldn’t have looked.

when you do, it feels like you’re being tilted on your axis, and your vision swims for a moment. his voice, though distant, brings you out of it. we should go find dean, he says, voice gentle like he caught a glimpse of the horror that flashes over your features. horror because they’re his dead eyes.

but it’s not over yet. there’s still another shifter in the house, and the adrenaline of an active hunt doesn’t let you dwell on it.

you had gotten separated, just like you said you wouldn’t, and when sam showed back up, you had to point your gun at him, you had to keep him at a distance. this proved smart when another sam walks in. your sam, you think, because he’s carrying the silver knife he took on the hunt today… and because it feels like him. but you couldn’t be sure.

so you kept your gun up and ready to turn on either one at a moment's notice, even when the mere idea of shooting sam, even a fake one, made you sick to your stomach. what if i shoot the real sam? you had thought to yourself in a terrified moment before your insincts kicked in.

you offered to test yourself first, slipping out your silver knife and cutting a thin line to prove to the real sam that you can be trusted. the shifter and sam stare each other down, and the one that you think is your real sam offers to test himself with his own knife. right as he brings the blade to his forearm, the other lunges towards sam, pulling out a long dagger and aiming right for the heart.

two shots rang out through the air before you could even think about it, and the shift dropped dead at sam’s feet.

now, as you find dean, just barely having killed the last shifter, you know that your instincts served you well, and saved both you and sam. but it had all happened so fast. the realization that there was more than one shifter, getting separated from the brothers, then the confrontation with both sams. your sam, who was calm and collected, but didn’t try to worm his way into getting you to trust him. and the shifter, who wore sam’s face and played with you.

he had insisted he was the real sam, he had chosen to confuse you. sure, to buy himself some time… but you think it was for the pure entertainment of it too. that’s exactly what the shifters had done to their previous victims; posed as their loved ones, but turned violent and angry until the victims tried to hurt or even kill them in self-defense. then they'd guilt their victim for trying to hurt someone they love. and then of course they’d kill them, with their loved one’s face as the last thing they see. they were a violent, messed up pair of monsters, and you’re glad to be rid of them.

but they got to you too. maybe you are their final victim, because sam’s voice saying please don’t hurt me keeps replaying in your head. then there’s sam’s body falling to the ground, blood pooling under him so fast and his eyes open in death. 

it wasn’t sam. you know it wasn’t sam. but in the car ride back to the motel you’re overwhelmed with images of his dead body anyway. and the fact that you had to point that gun at the real sam because you couldn’t be too sure. looking down the barrel of a gun and sam being at the end of it… it just about kills you.

from his seat in the front of the car, sam knows that you’re struggling. he can feel it. your eyes on the back of his head, looking haunted when he glances back with a silent smile of reassurance. and he can’t even see your hands where they are, tucked into your lap, but he knows you well enough that it’s like he can physically feel the way they’re shaking. he wishes he could wrap his solid hands around your trembling fingers and rub your back to soothe your breathing.

he’ll have to wait until you get to the motel, and he’s thankful the drive is almost over. the silence of the car isn’t a comfortable one.

dean reads the room easily and takes to the shower the moment you arrive. before the door to the bathroom is even shut, sam pulls you into his arms, one hand wrapped around your shoulders and the other planted on the back of your head to keep you close.

“it’s okay,” he murmurs, pressing his cheek against you. “i know you’d never hurt me. you don’t have to worry about that.”

the way that he hand picks words and tone and volume for you, with ease and purpose and a complete knowledge of you, your heart, and your mind makes you melt into his hold. you mold to his body, you hug him back so tight, and you cry a few tears. just a few, because his arms around you are grounding and real and better than anything else you could ever ask for. you thought you might fall into a panic, let your anxieties and tendency to overthink things get the better of you. he fixes it all with a hug.

a hug and a love for you that compares to nothing at all. it’s like the way that he holds you and the way that he knows you, gently close the gaps where worry and fear and tears slip through. no stitches, no needle and thread, just soft bandages that hold you together.

⟢⟢⟢

you kill sam in your dreams. you don’t remember anything else. just what it’s like to point your gun at him and shoot with intent. what it’s like to press your hands to the bleeding wounds you made and see his eyes go still. you wake before you can close them with bloody hands.

you’re trembling and you don’t think you’re breathing quite right.

it’s just a dream. it was just a dream. none of it is real. you would never hurt sam, never on purpose. 

with a sharp twist of your neck, you look over at his sleeping form from your spot on the pullout couch. 

you share a bed much more often than not, but this motel is out of rooms with queen beds. last time you slept in a twin bed with him you almost fell to the floor even with him holding you close. that thought brings you out of it for a moment. but seeing him so still in bed is too scary for you to stay calm for any longer than that.

he’s fine, you think desperately. he’s just sleeping. if you could take the time to let your eyes adjust to the dark or see through the tears in your eyes, you’d be able to catch the rise and fall of his breathing. but you can’t.

you can’t even keep track of your own breathing as you stumble out of bed and towards him before realizing at the last moment that you don’t want to wake him.

so you put a hand to your chest and try to breathe as you turn around and make your way to the motel room door on shaky legs. the tears run and run like they can outpace the fear, maybe drown it, and you don’t realize how much noise you’re making as you fumble with the lock and the handle and the door that wasn’t this heavy earlier today.

you’re looking for the cold. the wind, maybe rain if you’re lucky. you’re looking for something to feel that’s not a phantom of your nightmares or suffocating guilt and terror. how could you even dream that? how could you?

and you can’t breathe, you don’t think that you can breathe as your knees buckle and you sit down hard on the concrete outside. it would hurt if you could feel it.

you squeeze your eyes shut and drop your head between your knees because you know somewhere in the back of your mind that you’re having a panic attack. but from your position on the ground and the intensity of your anxiety, it’s not enough. you gasp and gasp and can’t hear sam’s footsteps or your name falling from his lips until he’s right in front of you.

he doesn’t touch you for fear of startling you, but he says your name so soft and steady and worried.

“please look at me, honey,” he asks. sleep tints his voice, love colors it. “it’s alright. you’re alright. i’m alright.”

looking at him is hard because he’s already there, behind your eyelids and bleeding out. but he’s alright. that was his voice saying it, his voice calling you honey and maybe if you open your eyes and look up, he won’t sound so distant the next time he talks.

he’s in front of you. the sight of him sways a little, but he’s there and if you’re seeing well enough, he looks so concerned. so sorry and worried and a little helpless because he wants to bring you out of it and isn’t sure if it’s working yet.

but you hear him and you listen, and when he can see your eyes, it’s a little bit better. when you can see his eyes, it’s a little bit better. they are not open in death. they are alive and feeling and looking at you with love and pain and softness and sorrow. he’s so sorry that you’re so scared of hurting him.

“can you focus on me, love?” he asks, noting your distant eyes and faraway mind and wanting more than anything to bring you back to him.

like a miracle, you find out that you can. you can focus on his eyes, and then his voice, and then you see him holding a hand out in case you want something physical to ground yourself with. it’s instinct to grab his hand, to grip it and steady yourself with it like you have a million times before for a million different reasons. like when you got tipsy and wobbly or when you wanted to go home but you didn’t have one. when you missed him or when you twisted your ankle or fell in love. when you killed him in your dreams.

you still gasp for air and you still cry. but sam is there and that means you’re going to be okay. that means he’s okay, at least for now. he makes for now enough, and you’ll make sure that it’s always. i’ll protect him, you tell yourself. you’ll protect him.

but for now he’ll be the one to protect you; tonight it’s from your fears and the cruel tricks of your mind. he pulls your shaky form into him. he rubs your back and kisses your forehead and your breathing slows down. the air comes into your lungs and it stays there long enough to make a difference. you feel the cold and the breeze on your skin. there’s no rain, but the moon can be seen and it hangs over sam’s head. the moon reminds you of sam.

you walk yourself out of the panic attack without even needing him to ask you for five things you see or four things you can feel. he’s proud of you for it. of course, it’s his being there that helps you more than anything.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, “there you go. i got you.” he smooths his hand over the back of your head, soft and slow and sturdy. when your eyes flutter closed, the only thing you see is the imprint of the bright moon against your eyelids for a moment. the rest is dark and calm.

the fabric of his sleep shirt gets all bunched up in your weak hands. the t-shirt is soft and thin from wear and it feels familiar in between your sleepy fingers. it’s october. he’s probably cold.

i’ll protect him, you remember. your fingers loosen and the fabric falls away from your hold. it rides up and exposes his skin to the wind when you rub up his back. it falls back over the hem of his jeans when you rub down. you’re trying to warm him, but your hands are shaky and small compared to the expanse of his back, even smaller compared to the expanse of the sky.

for a moment sam isn’t sure what you're doing, but he smiles so sadly when he realizes. his heart aches with love and adoration.

“let’s get inside,” he whispers. you nod against his chest. he’ll be warmer inside. so will you. you might be shivering. he hoists you to your feet with steady care. your knees feel weak, but you hold his hand tight and walk back into the room. sam closes and locks the door, the guides you to his bed. he sits you down on the edge and crouches in front of you, wiping softly at your tears. then he leans forward and up to press a kiss to your cheek, then another to the spot between your eyebrows.

you fall into him, wrapping your arms around his neck, and he accepts you happily. he rubs your back soothingly, lets you tuck your head into the crook of his neck. he holds you there until you sit up. he lets his legs go sore and doesn’t care about it one bit. you heave out a huff of breath and he cups your face, thumbing softly at your cheekbone. your hand slowly wraps around his wrist, then you turn your head to kiss the heel of his palm.

“let’s sleep,” you mumble against his skin. with a soft heart, sam obliges, climbing into the small bed after you. he bundles you up into his arms before pulling the covers over your warming bodies. he kisses the top of your head, letting his lips linger for a long moment before he rests his cheek against the same spot.

“goodnight, sam,” you whisper softly, voice still holding a hint of its earlier shakiness.

“goodnight, honey,” he echoes, voice just as soft and prettily hushed. he wants to say more, maybe another ‘it’s okay’ or sweet reassurance. he wants to make sure you know that he’s not afraid of you hurting him, that he trusts you and that loves you all the way. but he thinks you already know, and that you’re better suited for silence now.

he’ll tell you tomorrow.

[sleepwalkersqueen]

how everyone coping?

[happy74827]

Forced to Listen

[Dean Winchester x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Dean hated it when you hunted him down for advice, and he also hated that you knew exactly how to bait him into listening.

WC: 1082

Category: Fluff, Ranter!Reader, Mentions of Cheating, Sam being absolutely useless (iconic).

Can you believe that it’s been TWO WHOLE YEARS since I last wrote of him?? I’m so angry at myself 😭😭

『••✎••』

Dean could sense what was coming when he watched you stomp towards him with nothing but a small bottle of beer. The look on your face was one he had come to recognize over the years.

It was the one that said that you were about to coerce him into listening to your woes, and he had no other choice but to do it. The heat outside was unbearable, the kind that made Dean strip off his flannel and ditch the leather jacket, leaving him in his sweat-covered shirt.

But as he stood under the hood of the Impala, trying to get her to start, that bottle of beer was calling his name. The promise of the cool, carbonated drink sliding down his throat, relieving him from the dryness that had settled in his mouth, was something he desperately craved. And you knew that. That's why you were headed straight for him.

"Hey, Dean," you said innocently, the small bottle of beer dangling from your hand.

Dean sighed, his gloved hands pausing as he glanced up at you. He really wasn’t in the mood to listen to you whine about what was going on in your life, but that bottle of beer was too tempting to pass up. It was his favorite brand, too.

Goddamn it, you really were a temptress.

"Two minutes,” he grunted out, holding his hand out for the beer. "I'll give you two minutes."

You grinned, placing the bottle of beer in his open hand. In a matter of seconds, half the liquid was gone, and you were waiting impatiently for him to give you the sign to begin.

After another second, a sigh of content slipped from his mouth, and he nodded, signaling you to start.

You didn’t waste any time. "Do you think I'm a bitch?"

"I think you're a pain in my ass," Dean retorted, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. It didn’t make much difference since his hand was already covered in dirt and grease, but it made him feel a little better. "Don’t tell me you came over here just to ask me that?"

"No, I'm serious, Dean," you insisted. "Do you actually think I'm a bitch?"

You were staring up at him now, the look on your face completely unreadable. You were waiting for an answer, but he had a feeling that no matter what answer he gave, it wouldn't make a difference.

So, he just raised his eyebrows, silently telling you to go on while he took another sip of his beer.

"Dating's hard, Dean," you started, and he already felt a groan coming on. He did not want to have this conversation. "I just don't get it. Why am I not good enough for them? Why do I keep getting cheated on?"

You were pacing around the car as you spoke, and Dean kept his eyes on the beer. As you went on about everything that was bothering you, the more he regretted his decision to drink that damn thing.

"Am I not attractive? Am I not smart enough? What is it, Dean?" You looked at him, hoping for an answer. But when you realized he wasn't paying that much attention to what you were saying, you let out a scoff. "Great, so I'm not even good enough for you to listen to me? God, Dean, you are such a douche."

Dean rolled his eyes and finally looked up at you, the annoyance clearly visible. "Can I get back to fixing up my baby, now?"

"Would you date me?" You asked, suddenly, a hint of desperation in your voice. "Am I worth dating?"

God, you were killing him. He’d rather get heatstroke than continue this conversation, and he was sure Sammy would agree on his behalf.

He could actually see his baby brother from where he stood. He was a few yards away, sitting in the shade. A book in his hand, but his eyes were on the two of you.

Was he…? Oh hell no.

He was laughing.

Sammy was having a good time watching him squirm under your gaze, doing absolutely nothing despite avoiding the work Bobby needed help with.

Oh, was Dean pissed off. He’d get his payback soon, hopefully. It would be whenever he actually gets away from you and fixes up his car. Baby always comes first.

"I mean, c'mon, Dean," you pressed on. "Just give me some advice. You were with so many women, and they were all beautiful and perfect, so what's wrong with me?"

You were pouting, and Dean felt like throwing his beer bottle on the ground and stomping on it. This was the worst two minutes of his life.

"There’s nothing wrong with you,” he finally said, looking you in the eye. "You could be a pain in the ass, but unfortunately, I’m apparently the only one who has to deal with it, so... yeah. You're fine."

"Fine? I'm fine?"

"Yup," Dean replied. He turned back to the Impala, taking the last swig of his beer and tossing the empty bottle into your hands. "Thanks for the beer. Is that all?”

"I just feel… I don't know. I feel like I'm not good enough, ya know?" You said a sad look on your face. "Like there's something wrong with me. Something that's making everyone leave me."

"Listen," Dean started. He looked at you again, but all of his annoyance was gone. The two minutes were definitely up; he could quite literally kick you out of sight, but with the look you had on your face, he just couldn’t do it.

So, despite Sam’s utter lack of help, he was going to do his best to try to make you feel better.

"It's not you, alright?" He assured. "There's nothing wrong with you. If a guy can't see that, then he doesn't deserve you, okay? Trust me, you will have no problem finding someone else."

The corners of your lips twitched, turning into a small smile. "Yeah?"

Dean nodded, giving you a smirk. "If you want, I could always give out the ole hunter's special with your past one. Bobby could use a new rug for his living room."

A loud snort slipped past your mouth, and Dean was satisfied.

"Okay, Winchester," you said. "This is my sign to get the hell out of here."

And so you did, but before you could get even slightly close to the house, he called out to you.

"Oh, and by the way," he said, a small smile forming on his face. If you thought it was going to be wholesome, then you were sorely mistaken.

"Next time you come to me to talk about your feelings, at least have a damn pie."

[jasmines-library]

Hey I don't know if you've ever done a Winchester!sister story with the sister being really young and also much younger then her brothers, so I don't know if you would be able to do this request for me but I really hope you can:)

Anyway the request is 2 year old reader wakes her brothers up by crying and they get up and find her in her crib her onsie pajamas buttons is open as if she tried to get rid of it and then when Dean picks her up he feels the heat radiating from her.

Both Dean and Sam know they have to take care of the situation. Dean takes her temperature, and they find out she is sick and they take care of her and so on and so on. This is just a type of summary so you can change things as much as you like. I love a good fluff and angst story;)

Loveee your writing and can't wait for this story❤️❤️❤️

Sick Bug

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Summary: When you wake up feeling sick, your big brothers are there to help make you feel better.

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: Sickness

Exciting sidenote: I am 2 followers away from 1K!!

⛧ SPN MASTERLIST ⛧

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

You were crying again. Poor baby had been restless all day, tossing and turning as if you were trying to escape a force that wasn’t there. At first your brothers thought you were just over tired: the three of you had been on the road all day. Travelling with a toddler was dangerous business, so Sam and Dean tried not to do it often, but with Cas MIA and Bobby out of town they were left with no choice.

They had lay you down to rest not too long ago, but you had been restless since then. You had protested being put to bed in the first place, clinging to Dean with your little hands but after some coaxing he had managed to get you to sleep. That and you were absolutely exhausted and struggling to keep your little eyes open.

Then your eyes had come flying open and your little whimpers filled the room. You were too hot and felt like you were going to suffocate as your squirmed, trying your unbutton your pyjamas. Your head ached and your sinuses were uncomfortably blocked, throwing you off balance.

Dean rose slowly from his slumber, altered by your cries. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes he made his way to your crib where you were sat up trying to struggle out of your onesie. Sam rolled over to glance at your from his bed. He hadn’t really been sleeping, but seeing as Dean had made his way over to you he didn’t feel the need to.

“What’s the matter, huh sweetheart?” Dean frowned as he reached out to pick you up. Your arms reached out instinctively to grab him as you continued to cry.

The second you were in Deans arms he became increasingly worried about the warmth that radiated off of you and he shot a look to Sam who, at his brothers concerning lack of speech, clambered out of bed and moved cumbersomely towards you.

You buried your face into the crook of Deans’s neck trying to hide from the ache. His skin provided some relief and you sniffled. Dean further furrowed his brow. Your skin was hot. Too hot.

“Sweetheart?” Dean tried to coax your face away from his neck. He brushed away the stray hairs that your cold flush of sweat had plastered to the edge of your face before pressing his palm to your forehead. “She’s warm, Sammy.”

“You feeling poorly, kiddo?” Sam asked, taking you from Deans arms. You clung to him closely and nodded feebly.

Dean moved quickly towards the first aid kit, rummaging around for the thermometer as Sam bounced you up and down gently in his arms to try and soothe you a little. The eldest Winchester’s movements were somewhat panicked as he pulled out the glass cylinder.

“Alrighty sweetheart, open up.” He tried to persuade you to place the tube under your tongue. When you finally stopped trying to turn your tired face away and they had convinced you to hold it in your mouth for long enough, Sam pulled out to reveal that the line had skyrocketed to 101.

“Fever.” Sam confirmed, showing his brother the thermometer. He shifted you in his arms. “Explains why she can’t sleep.”

Suddenly you were overtaken by a fit of harsh, dry coughs that tore through you. Sam winced, rubbing you back gently.

“S’mmy…” you blubbered gripping his shirt tightly.

“Shh. It’s alright sweetheart we’ve got you.” Sammy moved over to the bed, still cradling you in his arms. He looked up at Dean. Realistically he knew that you would be fine, but he had never dealt with anything like this before and it worried him.

Dean on the other hand knew how to handle the situation. He had dealt with Sammy being ill plenty of times when he was younger. But when he looked at your flushed and sweaty cheeks and the way your body shivered ever so slightly, he couldn’t help but feel awful. As though he should have found someone to take care of you instead. But watching you curled up in his brother’s arms he realised he had more pressing matters to worry about.

Moving back to the first aid box, he pulled out a dose of medicine, cursing silently when you were overrun by another coughing fit. It was followed by another whimper. Sam slowly removed the outer layer of your onesie hoping that he could cool you down quicker. Still you clung to him closely, too young to understand that you might get him sick as you sniffled against him, but Sam didn’t care. He would risk being sick if it meant taking away your pain.

“Here we go sweetheart.” Dean wandered back over, a cool glass of water on one hand and a medicine in the other: one of those small sachets that they kept on hand in case of emergencies. “This will help you feel all better.” He promised.

Reaching out you held onto the cup, and with Deans help took a few sips. The icy water soothed the back of your throat and you sighed in content, setting back into Sam a little. It took a little more convincing for you to take the medicine. Tired and overwhelmed you had tried to refuse the bitter taste. But in the end Sam had promised you that you would feel much better if you took it, so reluctantly you let the liquid slide over your tongue.

It wasn’t long after that that you began to grow tired. Your little eyes struggled to stay awake as you lay curled up in Sam’s lap. Dean had perched beside him, watching shitty cartoons to help keep him awake so he could monitor your temperature in case you got any worse. Though as your ragged breaths evened out into tiny half-snores, the medicine seemed to be doing its job as your temperature seemed to slowly fall back down to a slightly more normal number.

At some point, Sam had also fallen asleep. Rubbing circles on your back and smoothing over your hair had lulled him into slumber. Dean smirked and pulled the bedcovers over the two of you. It looked like you weren’t going back to your bed tonight.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

SPN TAGS:

@defonotashleyr

@aestheticdaisies

@xxrougefangxx

@hell-o-kittys

@inlovewhithafairytale

@harleycao

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

[take-it-on-the-run]

Rosyln

Dean Winchester x FreshlyTurned!Reader

It was supposed to be a simple hunt. Something to get the three of you back on your feet after a year of thinking Sam was dead and no contact between you and Dean.

Word Count: 2.1k

Tags: Vampirism, the reader is turned, angst, hurt/comfort, soulless Sam is slacking, blood, vivid descriptions of smell and pain, vomiting, illness comfort, Samuel Campbell (yes he is a warning he sucks), brief mention of the reader killing Dean

Characters: Dean Winchester, Soulless!Sam Winchester, FreshlyTurned!Reader, Samuel Campbell

Anonymous requested: "hi <3 wasn’t sure if I could request this or not, feel free to ignore if you don’t feel comfortable doing it, but can I request a hurt/comfort fic with dean :) like patching up an injury or smth, thank you !!!"

Read it on AO3!

A/N: Bon Iver + St. Vincent title. Okay, I'm going to preface this by saying this went a little off the rails from what the request asked for, and I hope that this is still generally within the realm of hurt/comfort. Thank you for the request anon, and if you don't think I quite hit the mark, I'm sorry. Other than the haywire writing, this was a ton of fun to write, and made me brush up on my season six lore. Every mistake is my own, heed the tags, and enjoy!

Dean Winchester Masterlist | Supernatural Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

Blood ran down your chest and stomach, coupled with a hot, searing pain that pulsated from the side of your neck.

The barn you were in was slipping in and out of vision as you tried to focus on a small crack that ran through a few of the ceiling boards.

The reality of your life coming to an end in a barn on the outskirts of a small Midwest town crashed down on you.

It was supposed to be a simple hunt.

Something to get the three of you back on your feet after a year of thinking Sam was dead and no contact between you and Dean.

Rush the vamp nest, take them out, and torch the place for good measure.

It was a fairly simple plan, given the things you three had gone through over the past years. Ghosts, demons, and the damn devil himself. A plan that would’ve gone through perfectly if Sam followed through on his end.

You were supposed to go through one of the top windows, Dean through the front, and Sam the back.

You found two vamps up in the loft, swiftly cutting through the head of one before the other kicked you straight through the loft’s railing, landing on your back a floor below.

Before you could get to your feet, he was on top of you, yanking the machete in your hands and throwing it across the room. He brought his grotesque mouth to your neck, all sharp needles made of bone. The metallic smell of blood caked to the back of his teeth wafted over your senses.

You could feel the muscles in your neck drawing taught as his teeth attempted to rip out the soft flesh between your neck and shoulder. You tried pushing him off, but the harder you pushed, the more his jaw would close. The only thing stopping him from ripping your throat clean open was Dean running behind him and holding the vampire’s mouth open like a wild animal.

Through your drowning ears, you could hear Dean yelling for Sam to come kill the monster on top of you, but no such relief came.

You didn’t know where Sam was, but you knew Dean had a choice to make.

Either let the vampire’s jaw go, letting him yank your throat apart as he scrambled for a weapon to kill it, or continue yelling for his brother who was yet to be found.

Your eyes met his briefly through the struggle of his vice grip on your attacker. You could see confusion, followed by regret, flash in his eyes; like you were telling him it was one way or the other.

As strong as Dean was, you knew that he wasn’t strong enough to wait for Sam and still have the energy to hold the vampire on you.

He knew it, too.

You closed your eyes when you saw his hands starting to move away from the vampire’s jaw before they slipped off and he was out of your sight.

You didn’t blame him. It was a tough call to make, and if the roles were reversed, you were sure you’d make the same choice.

That’s the life, after all.

You were barely conscious enough to recognize Dean dragging you away to prop you up against a wall with a grunt. You heard the rotting door of the barn get kicked open, and you blinked your eyes open enough to see Sam finally make an appearance with the med kit that you stashed in the Impala.

“Where the hell were you,” Dean spit at his brother with venom. You heard Sam’s voice, but the words were garbled and you couldn’t put together what he was saying.

Your voice rattled a moan without your control, like a ghastly breath escaping your lungs in an attempt to cling to life. Their voices came to a hush as Dean returned to kneeling at your side.

“Hey, hey sweetheart,” his hand cupped the side of your face while the other remained pressed harshly on the gaping wound in your neck, “I need you to focus on me. Just keep your eyes on me, everything’s gonna be alright.”

You knew you were at the end of your blood tank; in reality, it was a miracle you were still awake at all.

Fuck.

You moved your jaw, Dean’s hand riding on the side of your neck in an attempt to keep the wound covered.

In no human realm should you be awake or alive in this moment.

But, as Sam shoved thick pads of gauze into Dean’s hands, you felt the world stop as a new smell cut through the one of your blood.

A deep, unsatiated hunger, as if you hadn’t eaten since the moment you were born, dawned on your tongue. It didn’t pile in your stomach like normal hunger; it coursed through your body, wracking you with the urge to find the source of the smell.

Dean.

The smell was coming from Dean.

You forced yourself away from him, kicking against the rickety floor of the barn as he looked at you in shock.

“What are you doing? You’re going to bleed out, please, I know it hurts, but…” his words died in his mouth as you slowly stood to your feet, feeling around the site of the wound. Your hand moved on your skin, slipping in your blood but not dipping against the gaping holes you knew should’ve been there.

“I need you two to back up away from me, please.” You stated as calmly as you could. Something was clicking in your jaw, and you guessed it was the new teeth forcing their way through your gums.

The two of the brothers stepped away, Sam a little faster than Dean, as you dug your nails into a wooden beam to stop your feet from moving.

You watched them from a distance, whispering to each other with occasional glances your way.

Dean took a step towards you, his hands in front of him cautiously as you firmly planted your feet to the ground.

“Sam says he and Samuel may know how to deal with this, he thinks they might have a cure. I’m going to grab the guy that turned you,” he turned to the body slowly, keeping eye contact with you, “and we’ll need you to come with us. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

You craned your neck to look around before your eyes were burned with the light creaking through the walls. It burned like the sun had come down to Earth and set it on fire, swirling up to your brain and distorting your thoughts.

“Dean,” you heaved out, planting your hands firmly over your eyes, “I don’t think-” your brain felt too light to form more words. Everything was too bright, too fast, too much.

Your body buckled at your hips as you heard one of the pair approach you. Hands lightly pressed at the backs of your legs, and you were swept off your feet.

When you woke up, you were sat upright in a chair, alone in one of the many rooms of the Campbell’s compound. You recognized it as one of the rooms dedicated to the many monsters the Campbell family took in; the barred door locked from the outside.

You gasped, holding back a gag as you tasted your rancid breath.

“Y/N?” You heard someone call out your name from down the hall, and you scrambled to the bars, wrapping your hands around them.

“Dean?” You called out with a weak voice. The owner of the voice turned down the hallway, revealing Dean’s broad figure walking swiftly to you.

He knelt in front of the bars, gaze sweeping over you, taking in your ragged appearance.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and steady. “How are you feeling?”

You laughed bitterly. “Like something chewed me up and spit me out.” The words felt strange coming out of your mouth, as if each syllable scraped against your throat, raw and foreign. You tightened your grip on the bars, the metal cold against your clammy skin.

Dean nodded slowly, glancing down the hallway where Sam and Samuel’s muffled voices were discussing… something. Something about a cure. A way out of this. But you could tell by Dean’s face that the chances weren’t great.

“Listen, they’re working on it,” he said. “Sam and Samuel think they might be able to stop this, to reverse it somehow. You just have to hang in there.”

You met his gaze, searching his eyes for any sign of certainty, anything that might give you hope. “And if they can’t?” Your voice was softer than you’d meant, but you had to ask. The hunger clawing at your insides was getting stronger, more insistent, and it terrified you more than anything else.

He exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead against the bars. “Then we deal with it.”

You felt a shudder run through you, half from fear and half from the hunger that twisted your insides at the scent of his blood. “Dean… you don’t get it.” You tried to explain the gnawing feeling, how you could practically taste his blood just by being this close. “I’m not safe, not like this.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll find a way to make you safe. Whatever it takes.”

Just then, Sam and Samuel came down the hall, carrying an ancient-looking book and a glass filled with a thick red liquid. You guessed it had blood in it, by the smell, but various other scents in the drink made you want to double over. Dean turned, his face hardening as he looked at them.

Sam cleared his throat, glancing at you behind the bars. “We… we think this might work. The cure’s based on a blood transfusion from the vampire that turned you, mixed with some ingredients Samuel and the family found.” He met your eyes, his expression somber, with a blankness in his eyes. “It’s gonna hurt. A lot. But if you can make it through… there’s a good chance we can turn you back.”

With a nod, you stepped away from the door, allowing Samuel to unlock it with a key he pulled from his pocket. Dean stared at you intensely as Sam crossed the threshold into the cell. He handed you the cup and quickly stepped back out of the room.

Before either Sam had a chance to close the door again, Dean stepped in.

“What are you doing?” Samuel asked, creaking open the door so Dean would have the chance to leave.

“If this has the chance to kill her, I think we owe her enough to not let her die alone in a cell like some damn dog,” Dean said harshly.

Sam looked as if he was going to say something, but Samuel silently closed the door and locked it.

“Dean,” you groaned out, the ache of your new sharp teeth erupting past your gums making it hard to speak, “you shouldn’t have done that.”

“I know you, and I know that out of all of us, you’d be the one with the most control to not eat me alive.” He said wryly, sitting against the wall opposite of you as you leaned against it.

You smiled despite the pain radiating throughout your body. The drink in your hand smelled like blood mixed with something bitter that sat in the back of your throat. You looked a Dean for a moment, before raising the cup a little in a ‘cheers’ motion and starting to slam the liquid down.

It burned like the first time you drank booze, but there was no warm and fuzzy feeling when you finished. You coughed roughly, dropping the cup and leaning over to sputter your inside up. Dean moved to you within a second, hand holding your hair out of the way as you finally opened your eyes to see what was escaping you.

Blood.

Blood shot from your lips over and over, the only relief found in the form of Dean’s hand gently rubbing your back as your body purged the vampirism straight from you.

You didn’t know how long you spent ridding the disease from your body, but it was long enough to create a puddle of blood that soaked into the jeans you were wearing. You brought your nose away from the smell, not realizing that the hunger in you had finally stilled. Every inch of your body was stretched and burning, but the smell that Dean carried with him was finally gone.

He leaned back against the wall again, bringing you against his chest as he whispered near-silent words of encouragement and comfort. The two of you sat in that cell for what seemed like an eternity, not bothering to call out for anyone to let the two of you out.

[szlez]

You're alright

Another art inspired by the epic fic Ninety One Whiskey by komodobits.

This time from Chapter 14: Aachen

If you feel like helping a good cause (and read some more 91w) pls donate to Komodobits's charity commission page.

[gothfleur]

home again - sam winchester

pairing : sam winchester x gn!reader/vampire!reader ➖⟢ genre : angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ➖⟢ cw : features dean x reader (platonic), near death experience, injuries, blood mention, animal death mention, swearing, so much pining, petty dean, crying, guilt, poorly edited, lmk if i missed something! ➖⟢ wc : 1.5K summary : after being turned into a vampire, you struggle to face sam again.

prefer to read on ao3? read it here!

note: this is my first time writing in a long time, and i'm trying out a new style... this is also my first time writing for sam! pls be kind and enjoy!

It’s been fourteen days since the vampires took you away as you slept in a dingy motel room with the Winchesters. Twelve days since they turned you into one of them. And seven days since you wasted them all.

The vampires had turned you, kept you, and starved you. Ensuring you would be driven into a bloodlust-fueled frenzy when they gave you something alive. 

And when they did, you couldn’t help yourself. Soon, there was a crumpled human body at your feet, red pooling in a puddle beneath it—her. Thus leaving you a full-fledged vampire, bound to this way of life forevermore. 

When you came to, mind clear now that you had been fed, you were careful in making sure none of them would hurt you ever again. Or… anyone else, for that matter. 

You found Sam first. Asking around for you not far from where the vampires had taken you. 

Sam felt as if he was running out of time. He had been worried sick, hardly sleeping or not sleeping at all. How could he rest if he didn’t know where you were? If you were even safe? He didn't even want to entertain the thought that you could be dead. You were out there, and he was going to find you. 

You ultimately swore off seeing Sam and Dean ever again. You would just have to forget them; you were what they hunted now. You couldn’t face them, a monster in the perfect likeness of their friend. You were afraid of what they would think and what they would do. Would they forgive you? Would they turn you away? Worse yet, there was a possibility they would kill you, right? You were a vampire now, after all.

So, you tried to keep it low-key before you could get your shit together and get out of town, leaving your old life behind. Feeding only on animals and staying away from the humans around town. But when Sam and Dean caught wind of some mysterious blood-sucking disease affecting the animals, they knew they were close to finding the vampires who had something to do with your disappearance. 

Little did they know, they just found you. 

You had your teeth buried deep in the neck of a rat when you felt a blade press to the back of your neck.

“Fine dining out here, huh? Rats, yum.”

Dammit, Dean. Always with the sarcastic comments.

Your vampire instincts said to attack, but your human heart said to flee. You didn’t want them to see what you’d become. 

“Answer our questions, and this blade won’t have your head rolling on the ground.” 

Sam.

He didn’t sound like himself. He sounded desperate, worried, and at wit's end. If threats were going to be the quickest way to find you, so be it. He hoped this vampire would listen, that violence would be a last resort. This isn’t how he likes to go about things, but with someone he cared about in danger, he didn’t want to waste time.

Hunger stabs at your stomach at the smell of them. Blood is pulsing beneath the fragile layer of their skin. You can hear it sliding along their veins, and you fight back a gag. These were your friends, not something to devour. 

You move, trying to stand and run, but the blade at your neck presses into your skin. You yelp, and a hand turns you and pins you to the ground, back pressed against the damp grass. You squirm in an attempt to free yourself, but you're weak and untrained. Your vampire strength can’t and won’t save you now. 

You watch helplessly as their faces strain and relax in realization. Morphing from surprise, relief, then to some emotion you can’t place. Something tells you it's somewhere between anger, fear, and denial. Probably some fucked-up human mix of all three.

“Y/N…” Sam murmurs, his eyes softening as he looks at you, the blood drying on your lips. You can hear his heart slow; he’s relieved to see you, despite everything. 

Dean removes his hands immediately, realizing it’s you who he’s hurt and pinned to the ground. 

Sam takes a step forward, crouching in front of you and reaching to pull you up. You can’t help but shirk away, scrambling backward away from him. Sam winces at your reaction, and he bites at the inside of his lip.

“I’m so sorry, you guys. So sorry… I,” Words tumble from your lips before you can stop them. If your heart was still beating, you’re sure it would be leaping out of your chest right about now.

“Shh, shh. Y/N, we aren’t… we won’t hurt you,” Sam says, his voice soft and sweet like it always was. It’s only been two weeks since you saw him last, but so much has happened since then. It felt like a lifetime had passed between then and now. You were a completely different person now, on an entirely different level of existence. 

“But what if I hurt you?” You cry, twisting your fingers between blades of grass as you lift your gaze to them. “I can’t trust myself. I’m so scared; I don’t want to hurt you.”

Dean has his hand hovering above his knife’s sheath, and you don’t blame him. You’re grateful. If you can’t stop yourself, maybe he will. 

Sam swallows, glancing back at Dean to steady himself. He wasn’t expecting this, and if he was being honest, he didn’t know what to say or to do. But this was still you. The person whose coffee order he’d memorized, whose smile he’d tease out with compliments and stupid jokes, whose eyes he'd find himself lost in more times than he could count. You might be... different, but you’re still Y/N, and he’s going to make you remember that. You’re not a monster, and you’ll never be, at least not to him. 

“Hey, hey. It’s okay, you’re going to be okay,” he assured, his voice as gentle as possible. He reaches out again, his large hand coming to rest on your shoulder. It’s warm against your eternally cool skin, and you realize you’d forgotten what his warmth felt like. 

“Sam,” You whisper, eyes flickering down at his hand, then back to his face. He’s handsome as always, his hazel eyes shining in the moonlight. You search them, scanning for any fear or disgust. There’s none of that. Instead, you find acceptance and concern. Your breaths come easier, and you swallow. Everything is easier when he’s by your side. Tears well in your eyes, and you realize that under all of your fear, there is comfort in seeing him again. 

Sam watches as your eyes flutter shut, a tear rolling down your blood-streaked cheek. He wants so much to hold you, to wipe your face clean, and to tell you he’ll always be here for you. You’ll always be his Y/N. 

“Aren’t you scared of me? Scared of what I’ll do? Of what I am?” You whine, looking up at Sam and Dean with a pleading look that crushes their hearts. 

“You’re still you. Changed some, but still you.” Sam nods as he speaks, his inner brow raised worryingly. His words make you want to burst into tears. You were so scared of rejection, of them leaving you—all that makes you feel kind of silly now. 

Dean sighs, his hand falling to his side as the other reaches up to rub his temple. 

“Just keep your teeth to yourself, you hear?” He jokes, but you know he’s partly serious, too. 

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” You chuckle, sniffling and wiping the tears from your cheek. You feel the dried blood crack on your face, and you wipe at it, scrubbing hard as it flakes off. Overcoming your sanguine urges would be hard, not to mention the fact you’re likely facing eternity. But maybe with these two by your side, it won’t be so bad. 

Sam pulls you close, wrapping his long arms around you. He missed you. He missed hearing your laugh and breathing in your perfume whenever you walked past. He wasn’t going to let you go again. 

You hesitate to hug him back at first, your vampiric instincts firing at full blast. But when you finally hold him, that all melts away. You feel human again, for a moment. And strong enough to beat this thing. After all, you’d met vampires who were able to resist their urges. 

Sam strokes the back of your head once, feeling your hair under his fingers before breaking the hug. He smiles at you, and as he stands, he brings you up with him. His warm hand holds yours, and you never want him to let go. 

“Jesus, you two,’ Dean rolls his eyes and motions back towards baby, ‘let’s just get back home. Y/N, you need a shower.” 

“I missed you too, Dean.” You smile, and the three of you start back towards the car. 

You breathe in the cool night air. You’re home again.

[shy-taylorsversion]

Lie To Girls - Dean Winchester x Reader

summary- y/n always knew dean winchester would be the death of her.

warnings- language, violence, hurt, and absolutely zero comfort. this is very very not happy and extremely sad, that's all I'm saying.

a/n- inspired by this song by the wonderful sabrina carpenter i was listening to short n sweet and i couldn't not write this when i heard lie to girls. i apolgize in advance. (not beta read either, oops)

Dean Winchester was a good liar, a professional one at that. He could get anyone to believe anything if he just talked for long enough and flashed that smile.

But since the beginning, he’d never needed to lie to her.

Her life had gone to shit in a matter of a few days. Her best friend was found dead, ruled a robbery-homicide but it never made sense.

Nothing was stolen, then he’d shown up. Claiming to be her best friend’s cousin but she’d seen right through it. It wasn’t long before she’d pieced it together on her own, monsters were real and he hunted them.

He didn’t seem to realize that she liked him enough that he didn’t have to pretend with her, she’d just do it for him.

It never stopped him though, spouting one excuse after another. Swearing he’d see her soon and call even sooner. He’d promise he’d only had one drink that night, that he’d left alone and was just thinking about her. Guilt crept in and he’d text her, talking like old friends.

When he’d go weeks without calling, he’d apologize and say it wouldn’t happen again, an isolated incident. He’d show up at her apartment after months of silence with some vague story, she learned to not ask.

She’d take his excuses at face value, accept his apologies like she hadn’t already. She forgave him every time walked out the door. He didn’t have to lie to her. She’d rationalized his indiscretions before he’d committed the act. Knowing what he was doing but letting him anyway.

She’d cry at the door of her apartment as she watched him drive away, telling herself that he’d be back to stay one day. Every time he’d come back, all smiles and laughs at her door. She’d call the ache in her chest for butterflies but it was more like cardiac arrest.

It was all lies she’d made up in her head, delusional fantasies of a shitshow she’d turned into forever.

– – –

Years later he was still everywhere she went. She’d been acting like a stupid girl so hung up on a man who didn’t care but she didn’t how to stop. All she ever did was wonder where he was, what he was doing, or if she ever crossed his mind.

There was a cavern in her chest when an old rock song was playing or when a brown leather jacket caught her eye, he was top of her mind at all times. For Christ’s sake, she’d looked at a fork one night and thought of the first time they’d gone out to a diner. Forks are fucking everywhere, they don’t belong to Dean Winchester.

She reminded herself of her mother and how she ignored the nights her dad didn’t come home or of her sisters who spent countless nights crying over facts they’d sworn were incorrect. The girl outside the strip club, makeup smeared as tears ran down her face and tarot cards clutched to her chest.

All the women she’d ever known were clever enough to see through their lies but stupid enough to let them get away with it.

---

From the first grin, all green eyes, and flirty remarks, he’d been shameless and she’d caught herself laughing, enjoying life in the middle of a living hell

She’d known in that moment, Dean Winchester would be the death of her. She hadn’t realized how true the sentiment would be.

It hadn’t hit her what was happening until the woman had thrown her against the wall. Someone had screamed her name. She’d caught a glimpse of black eyes before blacking out.

The world was hazy when she woke up, her head was light and the room spinning. Something hot and wet was running down her stomach, she shifted to try to check but she was held back.

A hand found her shoulder, pushing her back down. They were saying something to her but her ears were ringing. She dragged her gaze up, blurry. Every movement left her exhausted like she’d run a mile. Green eyes met hers and she couldn’t breathe. He was back and he was here, with her. A sluggish smile spread across her face when his hand found her cheek, warm and rough. She let her eyes close for a second before she was shaken, just slightly.

“No, No, No, Sweetheart. Eyes open, eyes on me.” Dean’s voice was muffled and rushed but she peeled her eyes back open, mumbling about being sleepy. He nodded and said something she couldn’t hear.

Her eyes fell to slits, she tried to keep the open but everything was so heavy. A bone-deep chill was running through her now, all she wanted to do was curl into him and sleep. She could see his face still, his expression was all wrong though.

There wasn’t any boyish smirk or teasing grin. He was frantic, eyes wide and mouth still moving.

She understood when a smear of red down his wrist caught her attention when his other hand found her face, wet and sticky like her shirt.

She was dying and Dean Winchester was scared.

It explained the way she felt nothing, other than cold and tired. Bloodloss would do that, she couldn’t remember where she’d learned that from. It was probably him.

“You’re gonna be fine, ok?” His words were panic, running over the top of others. “Cas, he’ll be here soon-”

She cut him off, dragging hang up to his face. Her hand was covered in blood like everything else seemed to be. He covered his hand with hers and leaned into it.

“You’re gonna be ok. You’re fine. You have to be fine.” He was still rambling, she let her thumb run over his lips and he stopped.

She knew by the glint in his eye that she wasn’t making it out. But he was here, holding her and telling her she’d be okay so she did what she’d always done for him.

“I believe you.” It came out like a whisper, not having enough strength for more. Warm streams of tears fell from her eyes, she didn’t know when that started. He shook his head. She wiped his own tears away and smiled. "it’s ok I believe you. I’m gonna be ok.”

Her vision was vignette now, corners fading into black and all she could still make out was him. He was a hazy shadow, clutching onto her. Her hand had fallen from him, at least she thought.

The white-hot cold had consumed her. She was limp in his arms, suspended into nothingness.

The world was filled with green eyes.

Then nothing.

[sammyluvr]

love you again — sam winchester

cw :gn!reader, hurt/comfort, fluff, implied exes to lovers, canon typical injury and blood, hospitals, pet names (honey, sweetheart), 2K words. requested !

summary : you and sam have a past that’s rekindled during the panicked moments where he finds you bleeding out on a hunt.

sam was thinking about you yesterday, again. he’s been wondering how you are, wondering if you’d hate a text from him, wondering if you’d pick up a call. he’s been wondering a whole lot, and it’s mostly about you. some about himself. he wonders how to apologize for growing distant, he wonders if he’d be better for you if you gave him the chance. he wonders if you blame him and hopes that you don’t because he doesn’t blame you. it was his fault for letting things start to fade out first, but for a while it stung that you never tried to bring him back to you.

back then, it was what he needed. someone that would hold his hand tighter were he to loosen his own grip. and he supposes you needed someone who was already sure of things, who wouldn’t pull away in the first place. so, he doesn’t blame you.

sam also wonders about silly little things. like how you might’ve reacted to your favorite west coast family diner shutting down. he was disappointed when he found out, but he was downright sad for you. he wonders about what kind of hunts you’re going on and he wonders if you still carry that little old silver blade that desperately needs replacing.

and since he was thinking about you yesterday, that means he thought about you this morning, in the hazy moments between waking and getting up and going. since then it’s been all research and interviews and cracking the case the second day in town. before you cross his mind again, he and dean are in the impala on the way to take out a nest of vampires.

but of all the many times that sam has thought of you since you parted, not once did he envision finding you like this.

sprawled out on the dirty ground in a pool of blood.

certainly, he’s thought about you dying and how completely horrifying that would be. how sad and heartbreaking. all of the things he’d never get to say to you. but he always thought he’d hear through a mutual hunter friend, never that he’d be the one to find you bleeding out.

the moment he realizes the body on the floor is yours, all of the blood drains from his face. he gasps out your name and tuckes his machete away as he drops to your side. your eyes are still open, and your breath comes out with a horrid, shuddering sound.

“hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” he assures you, immediately locating the wound on your neck and pressing a steady hand against it to slow the blood. your eyes are already fluttering, and you look like you’ll pass out any moment now. “stay with me, honey,” he says, voice both stern and soft. the sweet pet name slips out on instinct. you’re his honey, even now. maybe especially now.

“suh-sam?” you rasp out, fighting for breath. you can’t even figure out if he’s real. maybe you’re delirious as you bleed out pathetically. you killed all the vamps except the one that got to you. that one fled when car headlights filtered through the drawn blinds of the room, before it could fully sink its fangs into your neck. if it had gotten to your artery, you’d probably be dead already, and that’s the only thing that gives you hope. plus, you realize that the headlights of the car must have been sam, and most likely dean too. that means it must really be him, after all this time.

“it’s me,” sam assures you. “i got you. just keep your eyes open, okay?”

you let out a shuddering breath in response. “th-there’s j-just one more,” you grunt out, “h-he r-ran.”

“shh, shh, it’s okay. dean’s got it,” sam hushes you swiftly, confused for a moment before realizing that you’re talking about the vamps. “don’t worry about talking, alright, honey?” he won’t be able to stop calling you that, not when he could lose you, in a far worse way this time. “just keep those eyes open for me, and you’ll be alright.”

while you almost want to protest, to say something to him, anything, you stop trying to talk. it’s taking far too much effort. you really wish you could comfort him, tell him that you’ll be alright. but in this state, you have to opt for bringing your shaking hand up and wrapping it loosely around his wrist. you give it a small squeeze to show him that you’re there, you’re trying so hard to stay awake just for him.

his heart aches as he feels your weak hold around his wrist and understands its meaning. sometimes he forgets how well he knows you, and right now, it sends a pang of desperation through him.

“i really need you to stay with me,” he says, mantaining that soft and steady tone to keep you grounded. you want to stay with him too, you really do. you want to keep looking at his face, even though it’s blurry and frowning. though, while you do prefer his smile, you’ve always thought that he looks beautiful no matter what. it’s probably cruel of you to find his distressed expression attractive right now, but it’s also true that you’re a little delirious and maybe bleeding out, so you don’t suppose you can be blamed.

it really bothers you that you can’t talk. more than anything, you want to reassure him. you also want to tell him that he’s been sorely missed, that his hair looks very nice like this, and that you really don’t want to die because that means you won’t have the chance to kiss him ever again. maybe you should just say that you’d like the chance to kiss him again. or that you don’t want to die. you’re not really sure.

“dean!” sam yells suddenly, voice gruff and loud and tinged with panic. if you weren’t slipping away, you’d have flinched. things begin to blur then; sam picks you up and practically cradles you in his arms. he’s so soft and he’d be shaky if he could afford to be. but he absolutely can’t, so he’s unwavering instead.

“jesus,” mutters another worried voice, distant, but assumed to be dean’s. you try to focus on the feeling of your head on sam’s shoulder. he’s so solid and broad and that might be the only thing keeping you from just floating away.

everything fades in and out. sam’s big, encompassing hand pressed against your neck. so big that it overflows and his thumb pushes into the flesh of your cheek. your head’s still on his shoulder, but you’re in the car now, slumped against familiar leather seats. the sound of the rumbling engine fills your ears and then you’re glad to hear sam again.

“we’re almost to the hospital, sweetheart,” he tells you gently. you grunt out in acknowledgment, soft and quiet. you can’t remember ever hearing his voice like this before. all panicked and sweet and tender. when dean gets hurt, his voice gets all gruff. with you, it’s this never ending gentleness, edged with sharp fear.

in your position, sam or dean probably would’ve made it to the hospital without passing out. but you’re not good with blood loss, even when it could’ve been far worse. you’re scared of dying, as always, but when your eyes flutter closed and your consciousness tilts into darkness, you feel so secure in sam’s arms that you figure you’ll be okay. it’s a strange feeling, and you likely won’t recall it when you wake up.

sam himself is far less calm than you when your head lolls forward.

“hey, hey, hey. honey, please don’t,” he urges, helpless at this point. his plea falls on deaf ears, of course. dean steps on the gas, driving far faster than is safe. it’s late though, and the roads are mostly clear.

sam keeps you close. sam has trouble parting from you at the hospital, but the doctor needs to treat you. everything’s a bit better when he’s told that you’ll be just fine after proper bandaging, rest, and a blood transfusion and iv. everything’s a lot better when he’s back by your side and holding your hand in his.

looking at your face now, cleaned of blood splatter and relaxed in sleep, he’s able to really take in the ways you’ve changed physically. you do look different, but not by too much. he’s mostly just enthralled with how beautiful you are.

there’s also the feeling of the jacket you were wearing, folded nicely across his lap. he’s not really sure why he put it there, instead of leaving it on the bottom of the bed where it was first laid out. but he picked it up, for some reason or another, and felt a lump in the pocket. he knows he probably shouldn’t have looked at your things, but he felt like he had to. sliding his hand into the worn fabric sends a rush through him. once, you held hands in your pocket when it was cold outside. he always runs warm, so you had decided to tuck his hand into your pocket like your own personal hand warmer.

in the pocket, he finds that old silver blade that he thinks about sometimes. it’s even more worn now, and he shakes his head at you softly, affectionately. he bought a new silver knife recently, and if you let him, he’s going to give it to you. then he sits in the chair by your side, placing the jacket in his lap before he takes your hand in his.

the first thing that you feel is a big hand wrapped around yours. and as you draw in a long breath, you know that it’s sam’s. that means that when you get your eyes to open—it’s a little hard right now—you’ll get to see him. another deep breath, and your eyes flutter open.

sam’s grip on your hand tightens a little.

“hey,” he murmurs, eyes scanning your form, looking for discomfort or a way to give you his love. your own gaze settles on his face; his worried brows and small frown and pretty eyes.

“hi,” you whisper, voice hoarse and tired. you squeeze his hand back lightly.

“how you feeling?” he asks softly.

“i’m okay,” you offer, giving him a small smile. you’ve been far worse in the past, you’re just groggy and a little sore. honestly, it’s rare to be this well cared for after getting injured on a hunt, and with sam by your side, it’s sort of nice, even.

sam, of course, considers asking how you really are. but with the way you’re looking at him, all soft and… well, how you used to when things were uncomplicated, he accepts your answer. 

“good. you need anything? water?” he still needs to take care of you somehow.

you can’t help but smile at him again. “water would be nice,” you admit, knowing that it’ll make him feel better to be able to do something for you. that, and your throat really does burn with how dry it is. the gruffness of your voice reflects that. it’s oddly intimate when sam opens the water bottle at your bedside and brings it to your lips, ever careful when he tilts it and lets a bit of water flow into your softly opened lips. it’s intimate enough to make your face all warm with rushing blood.

you still love him. you really do. or maybe you love him again; you can feel that he’s different, and you know that you are, and somehow it feels like his hand fits in yours better tonight… or maybe it just feels more right now.

the time apart was needed, the way it happened still stings a little, and the way that you found each other again was less than ideal. well, sam certainly hates how it happened much more than you do. he had to do all the worrying, all the saving. you got to feel him holding you and hear him calling you honey and see him caring about you so much. so now, you’re just glad for the chance to kiss him again, because it’s that easy to tell that you have it.

[prentissluvr]

take my breath away — sam winchester

pairing : sam winchester x gn!reader ➖⟢ genre : angst, hurt/comfort, fluff ➖⟢ cw : features dean x reader (platonic), near death experience, suffocation, other canon violence and death, injuries, blood mention, swearing, so much pining, case fic, stereotypical witch, (not) unrequited love, petty fights/arguments, petty sam, kissing, crying, guilt, reader vaguely implied to be shorter than sam, pet names, food mentions, (baby, honey - from sam, darlin'/kiddo from dean), no use of y/n, mentions of end of season 2-4 spoilers, poorly edited, lmk if i missed something! ➖⟢ wc : 13.7K summary : because of an unexpected witch's curse, it's almost too late for you and sam to confess your feelings to each other.

MOVED BLOGS TO @sammyluvr !! no longer active on this blog! all fics can be found there!

you see sam when it rains. even if he’s sitting right in front of you, you’ll look out the car window and at the rivulets of water rushing down the glass, distorting the image of an empty highway and summer-time trees at dusk, and you’ll see him at seventeen with rain in his hair and running down his cheeks. you’ll think of that smile he gave you as he took your hand and how that look he had in his eyes haunts you worse than any ghost you’ve seen, because you think it could’ve been love. sometimes, you’ll still see glimpses of that sam, but he can be rare. so, you go as far to wonder if maybe he still looks at you like that when your gaze is turned away. 

once, when the windows were down and he was sitting in the back with you for a change, the spring air was nice and clean as it filtered into the sometimes stuffy car, and you felt his multicolor gaze watching you. the look on his face changed when you locked eyes, but for an imagined moment, it seemed that you—your eyes closed against the wind and a light smile on your face that, for once, wasn’t grim—were his everything.

you press your temple to the cold glass of the window, hoping it’ll sober you up a little from your love-drunk state. it’s so goddamn stupid that you’re even thinking about him like this right now, because he’s still sort of mad at you for something rash you did during your last hunt. only you don’t think it was stupid, so you’re half pissed that he won’t let it go. staring at the back of his head and the pretty curled ends of his hair, you sigh quietly. even his shoulders rising up past the seat are handsome. you miss him, and he’s close enough to reach out and touch.

dean’s voice breaks your reverie, and you have to draw in a deep breath. without you even noticing, thinking about sam so hard makes you breathless, almost every time.

“so, why don’t you give us the full rundown, sammy? ‘fore either of you decide to conk out on me,” dean suggests. that means he’s bored, because neither of you will fall asleep for at least another hour or two, and you’ll probably take your turn driving for a few soon.

“sure,” sam agrees, and you hear the shuffle of papers as he digs out a newspaper article and some notes. “three people in the last three weeks all died from suffocation, but with no apparent cause. they just,” sam’s shoulders move a little as he motions vaguely with his hands, “stopped breathing.”

“sounds witchy to me,” dean says, very predictably. you think you could’ve said those exact words at the exact same time if you wanted to tease him about it.

“yeah. what’s weird is that the vics were reported feeling out of breath up to 16 hours before they actually died. says it looks like they slowly died from oxygen deprivation,” sam adds.

“huh. so not hex bags, but another sort of spell?” you wonder aloud, easily talking about the case despite the remainders of tension between you and sam. that’s just how it is, with all of you. even when you’re mad, you still work the case.

“most likely,” sam agrees, “the vics went about their days pretty much normally until they died, so they were in different places as they were dying. seems like a hex bag wouldn’t work unless it was on them the whole time.” you nod, and though he’s not turned around to look at you, you’re sure he knows anyway.

“alright, well. looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us,” dean states, “we’ll be in town in the morning, so we’ll rest up real quick then head to the police station. you two can do your interviewing magic with the vic’s families and hopefully we’ll know more by then.”

this was easily predicted as well. for as long as you’ve been able to pass as an fbi agent, he’s mostly left interviewing the families to you and sam since the two of you tend to be more socially appropriate, and thus, more able to get information without raising alarms. though, the questions you ask never cease to be weird and confusing to the world’s oblivious civilians. of course, dean makes exceptions for pretty girls who he can flirt his way into telling him just about anything. this time, you wish dean would make an exception because it kills you that you and sam aren’t getting along perfectly right now. you know that you’ll work it out soon, probably within the week, but you still hate it.

through the impala’s windows, you watch the sky turn dark and the moon come out. you drive, then fall asleep to the rumble of the engine for a few hours, and wake to see the sky turn light again. keeping it all to yourself, you revel in the sunrise and the way it turns the sky bright and the clouds cotton candy pink around the edges. 

you sink into the sight of sam sleeping in front of you, the early morning light kissing his features and shining through his mousy brown hair. if you lean a little to the left, you can soak up the image of his softly closed eyes, the mole by his nose, and the relaxed curve of his lips. you smile to yourself at the way his hair is all messed up on the side of his head that’s resting against the window until you catch dean’s gaze on you through the rearview mirror. you tear your gaze from both brothers and latch it to the moving countryside out the window. for a while now, you’ve figured there’s no way dean doesn’t see that you’re in love with his brother, but despite such, he doesn’t say much outside of lightheartedly teasing for the both of you. he’s the only one who knows that sam looks at you just like that when you’re the one who’s asleep. he’s the one who sees sam turn, trying to be subtle, just to look at the way the moonlight kisses your lips, wishing it was him.

it’s eight in the morning when you pull up to the first motel you see. you wished sam hadn’t woken up on his own half an hour ago. that way, you could’ve put your hand on his shoulder, shaken him all soft and gentle like you do just for him, and mumbled, “wake up, sammy. we’re here.” then he’d stir, still sweet-looking from sleep and give you a little smile if he’d managed to dream without nightmares before remembering he’s supposed to still be upset with you.

instead, he’s fully awake when he climbs out of the car and pops your door open like he does every time you can’t beat him to it. he doesn’t talk about that habit, because he knows you can take care of it yourself. but if it’s so easy for him to do it as you grab your bag, then he thinks there’s no harm. besides, you’ve never told him off for it, so he does that and just about any other little thing he can get away with for you. and much to your chagrin, he still does it all when he’s pissed at you. he’s too good like that, even if you think he should just get over what happened a few days ago.

the three of you are just about wordless as you check in and pile into the room, all tired and without anything of importance to say. when you catch sight of the couch in the room, you sigh in relief. it would’ve been sam’s turn to share the bed, and you’re not sure you could do that this time around. sometimes it’s hard to breathe when he’s right there, so close after you’ve spent literal hours in the car just plain old pining over him. so, you find an extra sheet in the closet and steal a pillow from dean’s bed, all but collapsing onto the couch with a morning-time “goodnight.”

you don’t care that your feet hang over the edge unless you curl up or mind the way the springs dig into the flesh of your side, all you want is to welcome quick sleep. you’re lucky, and drift off moments later. you barely have time to think about how glad you are that you won’t have one of your nights where you lay awake, staring at the ceiling as you wonder why you would fall in love with someone you can’t have. him and dean are all you have, and no matter how your heart aches to pull sam close, you’d never do anything to jeopordize what you have, here and now. he’s your best friend, that’s all you can ask for in this life, maybe even more than you should.

waking as you normally do to the sounds of sam and dean moving about the motel room, you sit up, a little groggy. you glance at the clock, and you’ve slept for about four hours, just as predicted.

“up ‘n at ‘em,” dean says as he walks past you, giving you a playful clap on the back.

“mhmm,” is all you respond with, swinging your legs off the couch and digging through your bag for your pant suit and toothbrush. dean’s already in his, and sam’s brushing his teeth in the bathroom, still in his tshirt and jeans from yesterday. you don’t even have to say a word for sam to move out of the bathroom as you approach. so he won’t have to wait with a mouth full of tooth-paste and spit for you too long, you change quickly, leaving your clothes on the bathroom floor and opening the door for sam as you begin to brush your own teeth. the two of you maneuver around the cramped space with practiced ease, and when he’s done, he disappears back into the bedroom space without a word. when he’s petty to other people, you think it’s kind of hot. but when he does it to you, it makes you want to ring his neck. 

“asshole,” you mumble to yourself. it’s a classic tango between the two of you; you want him to just get over it, and he wants you to admit that he’s right, or the other way around. and both of you are far too stubborn to be the one to relent first, so you’ll be pissy at each other for a few days until you get bored of it or dean gets too annoyed. all it takes to get past it is you putting your head in his lap after a long day, maybe him resting his head on your shoulder, or the two of you laughing too hard over something together to keep being mad, and maybe just a few mumbled apologies from the both of you. if it’s really big enough for none of those things to work, then you talk about it until things are okay again.

dean drops you off at the first victim’s house, with the promise that the second is close enough to walk to, and the third he’ll join you for once he’s done at the coroner’s office.

sam still won’t talk to you as you wait on the front porch of the house after ringing the doorbell. a young woman opens the door, probably around your own age, and you smile at her before flashing your badge.

“hi. i’m agent green. this is my partner, agent smith. we’re looking for natalie goh?” you greet, comfortable and at ease in your ruse.

“that’s me,” she confirms for you, sounding nice enough. “how can i help you, agents?”

“we would just like to ask a few questions about your late boyfriend, henry,” sam explains, “may we come inside?”

her face falls when he mentions her boyfriend, but she nods her head. “of course, come in.” you follow her to the living room where she motions for you to sit. “let me grab you something to drink,” she offers, disappearing into the next room before you can refuse. “is lemonade okay? my next door neighbor brought me so much when she heard about henry… you know. i can’t possibly drink it all.”

you want to say no, not wanting to make her go through the extra effort, but you accept for both you and sam out of sympathy. she sounds like she needs to keep her hands busy to distract herself. 

she sets the drinks down in front of you, asking as she sits, “what, uhm, what is the fbi’s interest in … in henry?”

“we’re investigating a few odd deaths, like your boyfriend’s, in the area,” sam explains, “now, was there anything unusual the day of or the days leading up to his death?”

“i, um, i don’t– i don’t think so, like what? and, i’m sorry, the police told me he most likely choked on something, how is that strange?” natalie frets. you glance at sam and catch him readjusting his features as a brief look of surprise crosses over his face. it makes sense that that’s what the police told her, but you hadn’t known they’d said so.

“well, natalie, the cause of his death wasn’t entirely clear, and because a few more people have died similarly since, we’re just being extra thorough,” you do your best to placate her before she starts getting too wary of you and sam. “it really could mean nothing, but it’s important for us to cover all of our bases. so, can you tell us if there was anything out of the ordinary? was he acting strange, or did you notice anything unusual around the house, like maybe cold spots or flickering lights?”

she furrows her eyebrows in confusion, “um, no. no, nothing like that. he was just being him, you know, he was such an amazing boyfriend, he made me breakfast that morning even though he said he was tired. i already told this to the police, but he sounded kind of out of breath when we called. that was the last time i talked to him,” her voice begins to tremble, so you reach out a comforting hand and place it atop hers from across the table. “i had to stay late at work, and when i got home, he was … he was gone. i found him in the kitchen.” a tear slips down her cheek, and she moves her hand away from yours to wipe it off. you shift back in your seat and glance at sam, trying to give him the hint to get moving. but, he keeps his gaze trained elsewhere.

you resist the urge to roll your eyes at him, almost ready to pull the “may i use your bathroom” ruse first. it’s almost always sam who does it, and sure enough, he clears his throat to ask.

“would you mind if i used your restroom?”

“oh, sure,” she says, “there’s one by the pantry, through the kitchen and to the left.”

he stands, thanking her a bit awkwardly before disappearing through the doorway to the kitchen.

once he’s gone, you turn your attention back to natalie. “i know that this can be a difficult question, but is there anyone that comes to mind who might want to hurt henry?” absentmindedly, you take a sip of the lemonade after speaking. it’s sweet, but not too sugary. you discover that it’s just about perfect, and you can’t hold back from continually taking a few sips here and there to fight back the heat of the afternoon.

“oh, goodness, no,” she sounds horrified by that prospect, “henry was just the kindest. the best boyfriend i could ask for,” she reiterates. “you think that someone– that someone…?”

“no, no,” you lie, “there would be signs if someone else hurt him, but like i said, we just need to be completely thorough. i’m sorry to even have to ask. now, if you’re okay with it, could you tell me more about henry?”

“yes, yeah, i can do that,” she sighs in relief. it’s clear she wants to talk about him, and probably how much she misses him. you do your best to pay close attention and keep her focused on you and your questions as sam takes forever “in the bathroom.” nothing she says is very useful, it’s all about how loving and kind and just about perfect he was to her. at first, you’re able to listen without a qualm, but the more she rambles about how much she loved him, and maybe even more so how much he loved her, your mind inevitably wanders to sam. sam and your bothersome, bottomless pit of unrequited love.

you kindly cut natalie off and stand when you hear sam’s footsteps approach. “it sounds like henry was a wonderful person. i’m so sorry for your loss.” despite knowing those words don’t mean or do much, you still fill them with as much sincerity as you can. sam is at your side again. “we really appreciate you taking the time to talk to us. we’ll get out of your hair now.”

she shows you to the front door out of courtesy, and you give her one last thank you and kind smile before turning your back and heading to the sidewalk, sam just ahead of you. pushing off the ground a little harder for a few steps, you catch up to him and his long strides, unable to resist the urge to let your gaze wander to his face.

“anything?” you ask, hoping he’ll look at you too.

“nope,” he shakes his head, “no emf, no hexbags, nothing out of the ordinary.” pursing your lips, you let your gaze fall to the sidewalk ahead of you when he doesn’t make eye-contact. “anything on your end?”

“not really. she just rambled about how in love they were. said there was nothing strange about the day, or him, and that he had no enemies. she made him sound like a complete angel.” without you realizing, your lip curls a little in jealousy.

sam just huffs in response, likely bothered by the lack of information. “let’s hope we can find something about the other two.”

you repeat the ruse at the next two homes, and sam’s hopes are dashed, because by the time you, sam, and dean are back at the motel room, just about the only thing of value you bring back is a paper bag of takeout.

spread out in the room, with your respective assortments of food, notes, and computers, you share all the details you can think of to hopefully find a pattern. dean’s on his bed, sam on the couch, and you at the dingy table. the biggest discovery is on dean’s part. according to the coroner, each of the victim’s hearts had inexplicably shrunken and shriveled up. this detail was kept out of the public eye because of how strange it was; it happened after each victim died, as it very clearly did not contribute to the cause of death. that, and the coroner is absolutely stumped by how such a thing could possibly happen.

dean asks if the first two interviews were as fruitless as the last, and you sigh as you explain just how unhelpful they’d been.

“the only common threads are that they were young adults, all in a relationship, and all sounded to be just about the perfect partner,” you report. “i mean, maybe the witch is targeting people in loving relationships? jealousy? or maybe they have some sort of secret we couldn’t dig up just by interviewing. the people we talked to were obviously biased. the first victim’s girlfriend wouldn’t stop talking about how amazing he was, the second’s sister told us she was the sweetest girlfriend out there, and you heard how the third’s husband described them.”

“really?” dean asks. “i mean, yeah, i heard the last guy, but i ran into the first vic’s girlfriend’s sister at the station. she was doing something for her sister there, and she did not seem too impressed with the guy when i asked about him.”

you raise your eyebrows, about to speak again when sam beats you to it.

“so maybe we are looking for secrets. did she say what she wasn’t impressed with?” sam says just about the exact thing you were about to.

dean shrugs. “jus’ said he was sort of a lazy boyfriend. didn’t take good enough care of her or show his love all that much.”

“maybe he was cheating?” you suggest.

“maybe,” dean repeats. “how’s this? you can dig into records and see if you can find any dirt on the vics. sam, you can look for a spell that might’ve caused this, and i’ll scout out a few local places. the officer i was talking to gave me a few places the vics probably spent time at.”

“sure,” you agree, a teasing edge to your voice, “just don’t get too distracted. we all know by ‘local places’ you mean bars. no sex unless you solve the case, and if you solve the case, no sex because you have to report back to us.”

“so no sex?” he plays along, acting all offended.

“nope!” you confirm, giving a firm shake of your head. 

dean’s already on his way out the door as he chimes, “no promises!”

“seriously!” sam calls after him, “we need info!” he groans and shakes his head when the only response he gets is the shutting of the door. when he doesn’t make a snarky comment about dean to you, you clench your jaw.

“sam.” it takes a lot of willpower to sound bothered by him, rather than say his name all sweet.

“mhmm?” he’s purposely keeping his gaze on his computer and his response short.

you roll your eyes, “c’mon, can’t you just get over it? it’s not like you haven’t done stupider things to get a case done.”

since you insist on arguing about it, he lifts his gaze, looking unimpressed. “doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have done it. you almost got dean hurt.”

“and i already apologized for that!” you say indignantly, annoyed that that’s his argument. he knows full well, better than anyone, that dean can deal with a measly vamp, even if he wasn’t expecting it. “it’s not like dean can’t handle himself!”

“you should have at least run the plan by us,” he says. you roll your eyes again.

“it was a spur of the moment decision. unless you wanted me to shout it out, compromise my position, and let every single vamp in that nest know exactly what i was gonna do?” you retort. sam sighs, in the way that you can tell he knows your argument is better than his. so, you still can’t figure out why he’s still upset about it, outside of his usual stubbornness.

“it could’ve gone so wrong,” is all he can come up with, “and you know that. it was stupid, and you could’ve gotten hurt. or worse.” there it is. his voice changed when he said you could’ve gotten hurt.

it’s your turn to sigh, this time because you finally understand. it makes your heart flutter a little, and it makes you even more annoyed. “sam, i can handle myself. you know that. sure, it was kind of stupid, and not a fully thought out plan, but i had to figure out a way to get us out of there! four vamps were about to find you, so i had to distract them. easiest way was with my blood. one vamp found dean, but he handled that just as easy as he always does. i knew you’d have my back, so i let the other three come after me. and look! we’re all here, alive and kicking! this is such a stupid thing for you to get mad over.”

“it’s stupid for me to want you to be more careful?” he counters.

“sam, we have to take risks in this job, we do it all the time. that’s just how this works, what’s different about this time?” you question.

“just–” he presses his forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose as he tries to come up with a reason that’s good enough. a reason that’s not “i worry about you,” because that’ll make you even more angry, make it sounds like he doesn’t think you’re a good enough hunter. and he certainly can’t explain that that’s not it, he worries because the worst possible thing to him is you getting hurt. because then you’d ask why and he wouldn’t be able to tell you the truth.

“can’t we just be done with this?” you ask, and the tone of your voice is one he can’t deny. you’re upset, bothered, and tired of his pettiness. more so, you’re just plain old tired. it takes too much effort to stay upset with one another. he lets your question sit in the air for a moment longer.

“yeah,” he relents, voice quiet now. he’s holding back words, touches, feelings. he wants to tell you, “just please don’t put yourself in danger, it scares me. i get so worried. it makes me want to pull you close and protect you even though i know you don’t need it. that’s why i’m upset.” he wants to get up from the couch and set his computer across from yours, sit across from you, just so you’re a little bit closer. he wants to touch you so bad that it sort of hurts.

instead, he has to live for the relieved breath that huffs out through your nose, so quiet it couldn’t quite be counted as a sigh.

“good,” you say, voice matching his own quietness. there’s still tension hanging between you, but soon enough, it’ll dissipate altogether, and tomorrow, you’ll be back to joking with one another, brushing shoulders, and hiding how in love with each other you are. maybe he can even convince you to share his bed tonight. the couch is horridly uncomfortable.

only after you’re convinced that sam won’t be all pissy to you until the next time you find something silly to be angry about do you begin on your research. it’s just as fruitless as everything else today, and after hours searching and drawing banks, you go back to the interviews, jotting down all the details you can remember in case seeing it on paper helps something new and useful jump out at you.

all you get is a dull ringing in your ear, probably courtesy of some old motel appliance. but the ringing grows louder, and in your tired state, it becomes completely bothersome. you press your hand against your left ear—it’s loudest there—and shut your eyes. it’s been an hour or two since sam has shifted to sit across from you to escape the digging springs of the couch, so the movement catches his attention quickly.

“you alright?” he asks, already with a little pinch of his eyebrows in worry.

“yeah, ‘m fine,” you say, realizing the ringing must be the beginning of a headache, since sam can’t seem to hear it. “just a headache,” you explain.

“want me to get you some advil?” he offers.

“no, no that’s alright, i’ve got it,” you deny, but you don’t get up. your head doesn’t really hurt, and the ringing fades as fast as it appeared. you’re about to sigh in relief, when suddenly, you’re sort of breathless, and you gasp to take in air. the moment passes, and you shake your head to yourself a little. it’s weird until you remember that sam’s looking at you with that little furrow to his brow, sweet and concerned, like the last thing he wants is for you to be in pain, even if it’s just a measly headache. that look in his eyes as his gaze focuses on you and only you is certainly enough to take your breath away. it just took you by surprise this time.

“you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, worried by your gasp.

“mhmm,” you hum, trying to keep your tone light and trying not to look too hard into his pretty hazel eyes. “jus’ hurt for a second, but i think the headache’s gone away.”

“okay,” he relents, not fully convinced, but willing to take your word for it and refocus on his computer screen. you turn your own attention back to the papers in front of you, away from his face, so close that it sends your heart into wild palpitations every time your mind wanders from the case and to his presence. in other words, it happens often.

you’re determined to find something, some detail that clicks and leads you to anything important. but after another unfocused hour, your eyelids are heavy, almost as much as your head as you wish to just sink down and fall asleep right there on that little table.

“you should get some sleep,” sam says, no stranger to the way you look when you should quit being stubborn and just go to bed. and normally, you’d resist, but the idea of sleep, of closing your eyes and letting your breath even out, slow down, is far too inviting.

so, you relent, and close your laptop. “yeah,” you say as you shuffle the sheets of paper together and set them on a neat pile on top of your computer.

“take the bed, too,” he insists, “you look exhausted.”

“mm, glad to hear it,” you joke halfheartedly, “but, no, sam, that couch is too small for you. it’s small for me, even.”

“and it’s seriously uncomfortable,” he adds.

“so we’ll share. i’ll leave space for you. you should come to bed soon, too. ‘s not like we should wait up for dean,” you snicker. sam rolls his eyes, but easily agrees with your conclusion. as you settle into the covers of the motel bed, you consider waiting up for him so you can feel the dip of the bed, then the warmth that radiates off him as he lays beside you. you want to feel the brush of his long arms, the heel of his foot or nudge of his toe, sometimes you’re treated with the broad expanse of his back. but sleep claims you before you can even make the attempt.

sam’s big hand on your shoulder brings you back into consciousness, and you breathe in long and hard since it seems like you can’t quite fill your lungs. then your eyes flutter open, and sam’s figure is hovering over yours, his hand lingering, then slipping away as he sees you wake. he doesn’t stand fully upright yet, unsure if he should say something or not.

he keeps his voice low, not wanting to alert dean, who’s changing in the bathroom. “are you feeling fine?”

groggy as you sit up, you peek at the clock. 8:43. you slept through the 8:30 alarm. odd.

“uh, yeah, i’m fine,” you answer, voice gravelly from the morning’s first use, “why?”

sam shifts to sit on the bedside opposite you. “nothing just… i don’t know, you were just breathing really light last night. i could barely even tell you were breathing at some points and normally you breathe pretty noticeably while you sleep. and, you know, given this case, i just wanted to check.”

sam notices the way you breathe when you sleep. that’s just about all you can take away from his words. sam pays enough attention to the way you breathe when you sleep to know when your breathing is different. sam thinks about the way that you breathe. maybe that’d be creepy from anyone else, but you think about the way he breathes too. the way it lulls you to sleep when he’s close, the way it catches when he’s surprised, or the way it changes when he’s about to laugh.

then you remember he’s said something you’re supposed to address. “it’s nothing, sam. i feel totally fine, just tired from working back to back cases, is all.” you say this because you’re sure of it; you do feel just fine. and sam makes you breathless all the time, so there's nothing out of the ordinary there.

“are you sure?” he presses, “you slept straight through the alarm, like a rock.”

“i’m sure,” you say.

“okay,” you can immediately tell that he’s not entirely convinced as he says this, “but if anything happens or changes or you feel like you’re out of breath, you promise to tell me or dean?”

“of course.” you may not want to be fussed over, but you certainly don’t want to go out in such a stupid, horrible way. “i promise,” you add, just for his sake. dean’s phone starts ringing, and he appears out of the bathroom.

“either way, let’s get this case done, and quick,” sam insists.

“don’t have to tell me twice,” you agree, throwing off the covers to get ready for the day.

dean’s voice keeps you from lingering by sam’s side. “hey, crazy kids, let’s hurry it up. just got off the phone with the sheriff, there was another death last night.”

“dammit,” you and sam swear in unison. 

on the way to the scene, dean updates you on his findings from last night. he was just as unsuccessful as you in finding major dirt on any of the victims, though he recieved similar testimonials to the sister’s about the first, henry. otherwise, he was able to find the witch’s possible hunting ground in a bar where all three victims have been seen with their partners. sam reports that he’s getting close to finding the right spell after discovering a few similar ones. 

when you reach the victim’s house, sam and dean check in with the police officers, and you immediately head to interview whoever found the victim’s body. he’s obviously distraught, and probably still in shock from losing his boyfriend. you do your best to stay gentle, kind, and understanding as you lead him through the interview, interrupting your questions for the occasional “he sounds like he was a wonderful partner,” or other such comforting phrase as the man, tyler, rambles about how great he was, how guilty he feels, and just about nothing helpful except for adding another data point to the one pattern you have.

“thank you for your help,” you say, giving him a tight lipped smile before standing and drifting over to sam on instinct as you mull over the information you recieved. he’s poking around in the kitchen, subtly searching for anything abnormal and most likely coming up empty as this house follows the unhelpful trend of the rest.

“anything?” he asks once you’re by his side.

you shake your head, “just the madly in love bit. everything was pretty much the same as the other vics as well.” sam sighs like he expected that answer.

“i think we should look more into the first victim,” he suggests, echoing the same thought that you had. “maybe interview natalie again, see if she admits something different about henry if we push it a little.”

“i agree, though i’d say let’s hold off on interviewing her again unless we can’t find the spell soon. even if she admits that he wasn’t as good to her as she said before, i’m not sure how much good that does in comparison to the spell. if you keep looking into that, i’ll check henry’s records more thoroughly. i looked into him less last night since we already had something on him.” you revise the plan a bit, and sam nods in agreement, making that sort of awkward face with his lips pursed and eyebrows raised that he does when someone without the knowledge you have comes in hearing range. you glance behind you to see the figure of a police officer through the kitchen doorway and are fast to quit all talk of spells and witches to avoid sounding insane.

“dean can scout out the bar again to see if this most recent couple frequented there as well,” sam puts the last piece in place for your plan, just as you imagined it. once it seems like there’s nothing left to glean from the house, you grab dean and head out back to the car. the brothers walk a bit ahead of you as sam fills dean in on the plan.

“excuse me! agent,” a voice calls from behind you. the three of you turn, and you wave the two of them away to indicate that you’ll deal with it.

“yes?” you respond as an officer approaches.

“your partner asked for the full coroner’s reports on paper from the first three victims,” she says, holding out a file as she reaches you.

“ah! right. thank you, officer.” you give her a polite smile and take the papers before turning away. sam and dean have made it to the impala, parked a bit away due to the police cars surrounding the house. you jog at a casual pace to catch up, but falter about halfway there as your breaths turn all shuddery and quick. you stop, trying to right yourself and desperate to brush this off, but you just keep gulping in breaths, feeling like you’ve run a mile at top speed without warming up. 

shit. shit, shit, shit, is all you can think. fuck.

as you stare at the car, dean’s already in the front seat and sam is pulling the passenger’s door open, and you will with all your might that neither of them will turn to look for you. you don’t want them to catch you like this. instead, you want to explain it to them, calm and collected and full of breath because your body’s beginning to readjust and you should be fine to walk over in moments and dammit– sam’s twisted around to find you, his hands resting on the top of the car and the door. the second he catches sight of you, just standing there with your chest heaving up and down, he’s launched himself away from the car and towards you. he calls your name, worry flooding his voice. you had tried to recompose yourself the second you saw his head turning, but it was too late, and now he’s jogging your way.

sam is in front of you in moments, his hands on your shoulders and his face fallen in a deep frown.

“you’re not okay, are you?”

“i– i’m–,” you can’t think of what to say, and though your breath is returning to normal, you can’t deny him. “let’s just get in the car. please.” 

his jaw clenches and his eyes flick all over you, from the top of your head to the point of your shoes like he always looks at you when he thinks you might be hurt. he’s taking you in, quick and almost panicked so he can fix it right away. he takes a steadying breath because he’s so ovewrought he can barely think. “fine,” he says, voice carefully hushed. if he doesn’t control it, he might start shouting, panicking even. sam can’t bear to leave you untouched now, so he leaves a hand splayed on your shoulder blade as you finish the short walk to the car. he opens the back door and climbs right in, completely foregoing his spot in the passenger’s seat. you realize he wants to sit in the back with you, and it would’ve been sweet if it wasn’t because you’re probably dying.

jaw clenched, you follow him in, and dean’s already twisted around in his seat, gaze shifting between the two of you to try and read what just happened.

“what was that all about?” he questions, eyebrows raised. you put a hand on sam’s knee to stop him from telling dean.

“the witch got me,” you drop the news without much hesitation, more focused on getting your two cents in before either of them start grilling you with questions and making stupid suggestions to try and fix it, “it’s gotta be someone we met or passed by yesterday. one of the people we interviewed or someone from the diner we had lunch at; these types of spells normally require the victim’s dna. and before either of you do anything stupid or crazy, we’re gonna stick with the same plan. dean, you can drop us at the motel so we can find the spell and reversal, and you find out what you can at the bar. got it?”

dean looks at you like you’re crazy, and you ignore sam’s gaze altogether. 

“got it?” dean repeats back to you, incredulous, “not so much, kid, i’m gonna need you to explain this to me a little better. what do you mean the witch got you? you mean you’re gonna stop breathing in some odd hours that might not be enough time for us to find and gank this witch?”

“yes, dean, that’s what i mean. try to keep up,” you turn a little mean as your frustration takes over in order to compensate for your growing fear. “and i’m not going to die, so quit being so pessimistic. we’ll find the witch, as long as we stay focused on the plan. unless you have a faster way, which i’d be happy to abide by.” neither have a good enough retort to that, so you continue, “can we go now? we might not have that much time.”

with much effort, dean turns back in his seat and starts the engine. his voice is low when he asks, “what do you mean by that?”

“well, i don’t know exactly when this whole thing started!” you answer as he pulls into the street, “sam said my breathing wasn’t totally normal last night. if that means anything, well, i went to bed early last night, around eleven. that could mean it’s been at least, i don’t know,” you check the time, “eleven hours. which gives us five, minimum.” you think you can physically feel sam tense up next to you.

“five hours?” sam repeats, his voice taut, like he’s holding back anger, fear, maybe more. “and were there any times before that you felt out of breath?” 

you think back to yesterday. sure, every time i looked at you, isn’t quite an answer that you can give. “um, i’m not sure,” you say, sounding more cryptic than casual, as you had meant. you see dean’s eyebrow raise through the rearview mirror.

“you’re not sure?” dean asks, unbelieving. the two brothers are starting to sound like a broken record as they repeat every other thing you say back to you.

“yeah. nothing comes to mind,” you say, more firmly this time.

sam sighs. “you can’t seriously think it’s a good idea to hide that sort of thing from us if it happened. this is serious.”

you scoff, “oh, really? i wasn’t aware, it’s not like it’s my life on the line, or anything like that.”

“alright, let’s not get pissy,” dean intervenes.

“pissy?” you scoff again, “right, because this is serious and i’m apparently unaware of that.”

dean says your name, voice a little chiding as he tries to disperse some of the tension that’s building within the small space of the car. “let’s focus on the case here. sam is right, we need to know everything you do. was there anything else weird you noticed last night?”

“i don’t know!” you exclaim before calming down a bit and taking a deep breath. “i had this ringing in my ears for a minute, around ten. i thought it was a headache. and … i did feel breathless, but just for a second. i thought it was … something else.”

“why didn’t you say anything?” sam asks, immediately remembering this. you had pressed your hand to your ear. he believed you when you said it was a headache, but he should have known better. you’re far more likely to rub your temples when you feel a headache coming on.

“i thought it was something else,” you repeat.

“like what?” he presses.

“like–” you hesitate, “like nothing. just nothing, i don’t know.”

dean interrupts again to get things back on track, “so that could mean four hours, not five.” you see sam’s jaw clenching out of the corner of your eye.

“yeah,” you confirm, hoping your voice doesn’t reveal how anxious you really are.

“my question is why just you?” dean asks. “i’d normally figure it’s because they suspect you to be a hunter, but if they were able to get your dna, they probably had access to ours, too. the witch think you’re madly in love with sammy or somethin’?”

you fluster at that, mind scrambling, why in the goddamn hell would dean say that? does he want me dead faster? “uhm, uh,” you laugh a little, completely awkward about it, “why would they think that? we were clearly, you know, in a working relationship, not a, hah– romantic,” you clear your throat, “relationship. i’m sure it’s just the hunter thing, maybe they couldn’t get your dna… or they thought i was more worth killing,” you attempt at a joking insult, but you’re still sort of jerking through your words and reeling from someone saying “you’re madly in love with sammy” out loud.

to your left, sam looks almost as flustered as you feel, which brings you an ounce of comfort.

“whatever you say,” dean shrugs.

when you get back to the hotel, sam’s practically running inside to pull out his laptop, and dean speeds away the second the car doors close behind the two of you. both of you are fidgety and antsy as you conduct your research in silence. you think sam’s even more nervous than you, with his leg bouncing and teeth chewing away at his lower lip. you’re not sure if you should comfort him, or let him be in favor of getting the research done. it doesn’t take too long for him to find the original spell, and as he tells you about it, some nervousness dissipates when the both of you get back into the groove of a normal hunt, trying to pretend that this time, the consequences aren’t as personal as they could ever get.

you can’t find any dirt on henry in any records, so you focus on staff from the bar and diner from yesterday to see if there’s any overlap that could have gotten dna from both you and all the other four victims. something else entirely jumps out at you as you check employment records.

“sam, it’s natalie,” you blurt out into the silence of the room. he raises his eyebrows, and you explain before he can even ask. “she works at the bar. and i drank some of that lemonade she gave us. she had easy access to everyone’s dna, and henry was the only deviation from the pattern.”

sam stands as you explain, “okay, let’s go.”

“no, let’s call dean and finish finding the reversal spell. i’d like to have a backup plan, if that’s alright.” sam purses his lips, looking like he wants to argue. you propose something more rational than his idea, “we’ll call dean and let him know. he can go to her house and make sure she’s the real deal before we go, too.”

“fine,” sam agrees, pulling out his phone, just as it begins to ring. he answers it and puts it on speaker, “dean, it’s natalie.”

“yeah, i know. that’s what i was about to tell you, the idiots from last night didn’t bother to mention it,” he complains. “i’m headed to her house right now.” to prove it, you hear the car door open and close. “how’s it going on your end?”

“we found the spell, we’re looking for the reversal right now,” you answer. “call us if you need help.”

“mm, you just take care o’ yourself, alright? i’ll call you back.” after that, all you get is the hang-up tone. 

a bit later, your concentration is interrupted by the pinging of sam’s phone. you watch him as he checks the messages, then looks up at you with a poorly hidden scowl.

“she wasn’t at her house,” he explains, “dean’s headed to her sister’s to look for her there. but it’s definitely her, he found a secret room full of, y’know, as he’d say, ‘witchy stuff.’”

you try to hide your disappointment and the uneven rise and fall of your chest. sam’s stayed mostly focused on the research, but every now and then, you feel him looking you over, brow furrowed and eyes concerned as he checks for anything abnormal. he’s looking at you like that now.

“damn,” is all you manage in response while still trying to stay casual about it.

“how are you feeling?” he asks. you expected the question, but you still don’t want to answer. you’re about to tell him you’re fine, since you’re not really running out of breath yet, until he speaks again before you can, “and don’t say ‘fine.’”

“i am fine,” you insist immediately, “just extra tired from getting a little less oxygen than normal. but nothing crazy. i can still focus on this research and i can still hold a weapon.” you demonstrate by grabbing one of the knives you keep strapped to your thigh and twirling it a little in your hand. sam’s face spells out the word “really?”

“just– tell me if it gets worse. please,” he’s just about begging, and with a bit of puppy dog eye action, you’re crumbling.

“okay, sam,” you relent, letting your voice go soft. he’s really scared for you, and it makes you feel just about every little thing. you want to comfort him, reassure that you’ll be okay, even when you’re terrified for yourself. you want him to comfort you, for that exact reason, and you want to hold his hand. maybe you can be scared together, a little closer than you are now. you want to kiss him, because what if this is the only chance you get? that thought horrifies you. then you wonder if it’s for the best. maybe you should die as his best friend, because dying as his anything is better than scaring him away first. it’s hard to concentrate on the research, but it’s not hard to find the motivation. the hope is to avoid death completely.

finally, you find it.

“i got it, sam!” you’re excited, then a bit breathless after pushing so much air out of your lungs so fast. the breath you take in is sort of shuddering, and it makes sam frown. he doesn’t even try to hide how worried he is. his face is nothing but unadulterated concern and care and … and something else before that expression melts away and he’s focusing on the computer screen that you tilted towards him. the crease between his brows only grows as his eyes flit down the list of ingredients.

“we don’t have the half of these ingredients,” he worries.

“no,” you admit, “but there’s a witch in town who’s away from home who might.”

to get there, sam doesn’t hesitate to steal a car from the motel parking lot, and this time you can’t even argue given the fact that you’re pretty sure you have less than two hours to live at this point. you promised sam you’d tell him if it got worse, but as it does, you want to say something less and less.

sam picks the lock of the door, entering the house carefully with you right behind. weapons drawn, you walk the route that dean gave you to the hidden room, the door in the wall of the hallway left open for you by dean.

it’s much darker than the rest of the house from the lack of windows and bright lights. this, paired with the eerie assortment of basic herbs to what might be jars of blood, makes it look like natalie really leaned into the witchy aesthetic, which you’d find understandable if she weren’t using her magic to kill people.

sam walks faster than you know is wise to match paces with, so you follow behind him slowly as he rushes to set the computer with the list of ingredients on the table in the center of the room abd begin the spell. you’re a split second too late to shout in warning when you see a figure emerge from behind a shelf of herbs.

sam whirls around at your cry, gun raised, only to be hit on the side of the head, hard, by a wooden bat in natalie’s hand. he crumples to the ground despite his size, and without batting an eye, your knife is flying through the air, straight for the spot between natalie’s shoulder blades. but at the last second, she spins around, and with a flick of her hand, the knife falls to the ground. you reach for your gun, but through your hindered breathing, you’re slow. she has no trouble launching the bat at you at an unnatural speed. the wood slams into your chest, sending you sprawling and gasping in your weakened state. you’re fighting for breath so hard that you can barely register her hauling you up and tying your hands behind your back, then doing the same to sam. somehow, she’s able to get his weight on a chair and tie him to the wobbly piece of furniture. then, it’s your turn, and by the time you come back to your senses, breathing far more labored than before, you’re tied to a chair, back to back with sam.

natalie gives you a horrid smile as she tugs at a knot to tighten it.

“well, isn’t this fortuitous! such a lovely surprise for you two to visit me,” she chimes, just as you feel sam stirring behind you. his head lolls back, brushing against your own. you completely ignore her in favor of calling his name. a rumbling groan escapes his lips as he stumbles back into consciousness.

“that’s right!” natalie grins, “it’ll be much better with pretty boy awake.” she walks around you, and you hear a smacking sound that you presume to be her hitting his cheeks to wake him further.

“don’t touch him,” you practically growl. it sounds far less intimidating than you hoped in your breathless voice. she laughs and sam lets out an audible huff of air as he wakes.

“there he is,” natalie grins. “now i’ve got two love birds at my mercy! much better than i could have imagined. you know, i couldn’t watch the deaths of the others, so this is far more exciting. i thought i’d have to miss yours, too!” she motions to you. “but now i get to watch you die, watch pretty boy watch you die, and then kill him, too! lovely isn’t it? i’ve never had such luck, thank you idiots for bringing it to me.”

“you’re not killing anyone today,” sam retorts, anger filling his voice. with a bit of an uncomfortable stretch, you twist your fingers around to grab a hold of his. it’s awkward, but you take advantage of her horrible ramblings to keep her distracted and try to guide sam’s hands to the tiny blade attached to the seam of your jacket sleeve.

“i’m not?” she laughs, “mmm, you don’t really seem like you’re in the position to determine that, pretty boy.” you hate her calling him that. “well, love will do that to a person. makes you easy targets, blinds you. you two were just too easy, so busy making eyes at each other to pay any proper attention to me.” you conclude she’s crazy, rambling on about what made her angry enough to kill. you’re sure she caught you making eyes at him, but she’s crazy talking like he’s visibly in love with you too. immediately catching on to your plan, sam’s hands are fumbling around with your jacket sleeve, trying to get the knife unstuck so it can slip down and into your hands.

“it’s so goddamn irritating when people are just so in love with each other. makes me want to hurl,” she complains.

“sounds to me like you’re just jealous your boyfriend didn’t treat you like that,” you prod at her weak spot. she whirls on you, grabbing the front of your jacket and yanking you towards her.

“so i killed him. and everything he was supposed to be,” she hisses. “and know i’m going to kill you two pining idiots. you know, you don’t have very long,” she feigns sympathy in the condescending tone of her voice. when she slams you back against the chair, it takes your breath away for a frighteningly long time. sam’s so worried, calling your name out over and over again as you choke on nothing, that he almost doesn’t realize that the movement also helped dislodge the knife and let it fall into your hands. it slices a thin line down your arm, but you couldn’t care less as you begin to work on cutting through his bonds.

“oh, shut up, lover boy,” natalie growls, hating the way he says your name with so much care as she stays leaning over you, a sick smile on her face. why the hell is she calling him lover boy? you know that’s not what you should be so worried about in this moment, but it’s the one thing that you can think about. “i’m busy watching your little lover die! i think you’ll look so good crying over them, won’t you?”

when sam’s ties snap, he stays in place, holding onto the rope so it doesn’t drop to the ground and alert her. he just shimmies the knife from your hand to his and begins working on your own ties. through it all, he pretends to struggle helplessly, cursing at her wildly.

natalie rolls her eyes, then stands straight. “if you don’t shut it, i’m going to make you,” she snarls, stalking around to stand in front of sam. in an instant, he brings the knife to the rope binding him to the chair, snapping it and lunging towards her. judging from the choked cry that escapes her throat, sam’s already plunged the knife into her neck. you hear him grunt, then the sound of her body hits the floor before he’s turned back to you, quickly freeing you all the way and pulling you to your feet. he’s halfway to the door with his hand gripping yours when you tug back.

“wait… sam, wait!” you gasp, and he’s immediately face to face with you, sweet eyes looking you up and down with confusion and worry. “it’s not– it didn’t work. the spell, we need to do the spell.”

“what do you mean? that’s impossible, killing the witch who performed the spell always–,” he fully takes you in for the first time. your chest is still heaving, your breath rattling, and it’s undeniably getting worse by the minute. “okay, okay. just sit down.” he guides you back to a chair, turning it to face the table so he can keep an eye on you as he works. this time, you’re having a hard time hiding the fear from your eyes, and he reads that loud and clear. he lets you have his strong hands cupping your face for just a moment. “you’re gonna be fine. i’m gonna fix this.” he says it with such conviction that you’d do anything to believe him. then his warm touch is gone, and you’re again hit with the reality that it’s getting harder and harder to breathe, to get any satisfactory amount of air.

your eyes follow him desperately as he rushes about the area, checking and rechecking the spell as he adds ingredients to a small cup he finds. his movements become more and more panicked by the second as he notices your breathing getting worse, more fluttery and gulping. sam’s muttering to himself as he works, too scared to look at your face for too long. unable to find one of the ingredients, he curses loudly as he searches, shoving a whole rack of ingredients to the ground. glass shatters and the metal rack clangs against the ground, the sound echoing throughout the space.

flinching at the sound, you cry out his name, struggling to speak, “you have… you have to.. to calm .. calm down.”

“i can’t!” he practically shouts, and you think you’ve never seen him this distraught, this helpless before.

“why?” is all you can manage between gasps.

“because you’re dying! and i can’t let you die, i won’t.” he’s still rummaging through ingredients as he speaks. he’s still refusing to look at you.

you want him to say it, the truth, so you repeat the question, “why?” you wheeze out, desperate to hear it in case he can’t finish the spell on time.

“because i love you!” he’s no longer shouting when he says it. his voice is all desperation and helplessness and utter sincerity, said like all he needs in the world is for you to understand that. you’re not sure if the shuddering breath you let out could count as a sigh of relief, but it’s the closest you’ll ever get.

you take him in. tears running down his cheeks, lips pursed and eyebrows pinched like he’s holding back from crying out. he’s pretty like that, you think. maybe that’s a cruel thought, but you love him too much to think otherwise. he’s always pretty; when he’s mad at you, when he’s bleeding, when he’s stitching himself up, when he’s biting his lip in concentration. when he talks about something that makes him excited or when he’s crying. when he’s oblivious of the way you look at him while he sleeps, and when he makes you love him so hard that it hurts worse than anything a monster could do to you.

you’re lightheaded, and taking in so little air that you can’t say it back. all you want to do is say it back. you slide out of the chair and onto your hands and knees, shaking so hard you can barely hold yourself up. from the ground, you can hear sam, moving around, letting jars fall and shatter to the ground, crying.

when you collapse to the floor, writhing and gasping for any semblance of air, sam snaps. he can’t find the goddamn rosemary, such a simple and common herb, even for a normal kitchen, especially compared to all the other ingredients, but he knows it’s essential for its protection, purification, and healing properties. he can’t give up, he can’t let you die, but you’re writhing on the ground and crying inbetween gasps and all he wants is to hold you close, brush your tears away and tell you it’ll be alright. he barely catches the sound of your voice over the noise of his searching.

“please…”

“what? what is it, honey?” he asks through tears, unable to look at you as his eyes scan a new shelf for the basic pine-needle shape of the leaves, maybe even the little purple flowers to help it stand out.

“hold me,” you wheeze, afraid of dying alone on the stone cold floor as you feel your consciousness slipping through your fingertips like the sand of an hourglass. sam feels like he’s had his heart cleaved in two by a blunt ax coated in the world’s most vile poison.

he chokes on a sob before he can speak again, “i can’t. i’m so sorry, baby, i can't. i just need the rosemary, it’s so close, please, baby.” he’s not sure who he’s begging to. you, to stay alive? god, to intervene? himself, to finish the spell on time? anything and anyone who will listen, most likely. you don’t have the energy to ask him to hold you again.

that moment of silence is the most horrible of them all, then the door swings open with a bang, letting the bright lights from the rest of the house flood into the dark space. dean’s eyes zero in on you on the floor, grasping helplessly at your throat, and he’s on his knees by your side in a second.

he scoops you up in his arms and to his chest. “hey. hey, hey, hey. it’s okay,” he comforts, his eyes wet because he doesn’t know if he believes himself, given your state. “sam’s gonna fix it, darlin’. you’re gonna be just fine.” he’s holding you too tight to wipe away the tears that helplessly stream down your face and he clings to the fact that your hand is gripping his wrist tight.

“dean, rosemary!” sam barks. dean looks up from you, eyes scanning the mess around you; natalie’s dead body and the blood from her wound seeping slowly over the floor, the shattered glass and clutter of dried herbs along with other magical ingredients. sam realizes dean probably won’t recognize it on his own. “dried bundle, purple flowers, thin leaves,” he instructs as best as he can as he continues his own search. dean feels awful as he lets you fall back to the ground and your weak hands fingers scrape at his arms, but he thinks he sees it, rolled far away and invisible unless you’re crouched to the ground. he scrambles across the floor to grab it and tosses it to sam, who barely manages to catch it with his shaking hands.

sam rips at it with thick, clumsy fingers, crushing the brittle leaves between the pads of his forefinger and thumb into the mixture. he’s silently praying it’s enough as he mixes it in, letting a few drops slosh over the side of the cup in his rush. dean’s back with you, holding you up in a sitting position for sam with a hand smoothing up and down your arm in his best effort of a comforting gesture. he presses a kiss to your temple as sam drops down in front of you. sam uses one large hand to cup the side of your face, and the other to bring the cup to your lips. for a moment, he’s terrified beyond comprehension when the first bit of the liquid he pours into your mouth just dribbles right back out and down your chin.

you’ve gone nearly completely still; your eyes are barely open and your breathing so shallow that only dean knows you’re still inhaling because he’s got you so close.

“please,” sam begs, whispering your name with such conviction, such desperation, that it pulls you away from the claws of unconsciousness just enough to get you to swallow weakly. sam tilts the cup up, just a bit more, and the rim knocks against your bottom teeth as more foul tasting liquid seeps into your mouth. you swallow again, then gag a little when he pours too much for you to handle in your current state. sam’s hopeful when half the mixture is down your throat and he tilts the cup for you again, but the liquid falls down your chin this time, and your eyes are closed. you’ve gone totally still in dean’s arms.

“no, no, no, wake up. c’mon, we’re almost there. you gotta wake up,” sam begs again, more tears spilling onto his cheeks after his hope is stolen away, more cruelly than ever. “please, please, please, honey. please wake up.” his voice breaks as he calls out your name again, setting the cup on the floor and taking you from dean to pull you into his own arms. dean lets him, swallowing hard and not daring to move an inch as he takes in the sight, maybe just about the most horrible thing he’s seen in his fucked up life. that’s the second family member he’s had die in his arms, and the first is holding your limp body as he shakes, cries, and begs, beyond distraught as he denies the fact that he couldn’t save you. dean curses his life. he wishes it was him, thinks about the fact that he’s always too late to make a difference. he’s ready to sell his soul again, ready to go to hell and back.

you’re dead weight against sam’s chest, your clammy forehead and tear-sticky cheeks pressed against the sweaty skin of his neck. he gathers you closer, his hand tugging at your jacket and rubbing up and down your back, begging for you to wake up.

dean’s about to interrupt sam’s mourning to tell him he’s gonna look for the nearest crossroads, that all sam needs to do is keep your body safe. then you shudder in sam’s arms and he’s calling your name again, far beyond desperate that you’ll hear him. he says your name like a prayer, with so much reverence, far more than he could ever muster up for the god he wants to believe in.

you take in a sharp breath, your eyes fly open, and you’re gasping for air, grasping at sam’s sturdy arms like you’ve almost just drowned. sam just about sobs in relief, comforting you through his own tears, “oh, you’re okay, honey, you’re alright. i’ve got you. just breathe, baby, just breathe, that's all you gotta do.” his voice instantly calms you, and you wrap your shaky arms around his neck to show him you understand. he’s got you. he buries his face into your neck, trying not to hold you too tight for fear of restricting your breathing. you feel the wetness of his tears on you, warm and so tired. you don’t want him to cry. he loves you.

his hands smooth up and down your back, helping you set a pace to calm down your erratic breathing as you let a fresh wave of tears fall on his hot skin. they’re tears of relief, most of all. of exhaustion and leftover fear, and oh, glory, tears because he loves you. he said it, and now he can’t take it back because you love him far too much for that.

“sammy,” you breathe out. he just holds you tighter. “don’t cry, sam. it’s okay. i’m okay.” you slip your fingers into his hair, your hand so gentle as you run it through his pretty locks. you just want to comfort him, take away all the fear from the last few hours that he's been holding onto, letting pile up and up into an unmanageable, unruly, ugly tower. you suppose him crying so much is him letting the tower topple over, almost as simple as a toddler’s chubby, innocent hands to a wooden block castle. but it still tugs at your heart, pulls at you so hard because you hate to hear him cry, feel him shake and stiffen up around you, too scared to let you go for even a second. “i’m okay,” you repeat, voice fragile from the whispering brush of death’s fingers to your palm, but you try to make it strong and confident for him, “you saved me, sammy, i’m alright. it’s alright. it’s over. you don’t need to worry anymore.” 

you think he relaxes just a touch at your words, but he doesn’t move an inch from his spot on the ground, or say a thing to interrupt the sound of your breathing. all he does is cradle you close, one hand to your back so he can feel it shift when you take in or let out air, and the other splayed from the curve of your neck, up to the base of your head. without moving too much, he presses a long kiss to the ambiguous space above your ear. that’s not enough, so he tilts his head more to press his lips to the skin of your forehead.

dean hates to break the silent reverence between the two of you, and it means more than the world, the whole goddamn universe or anything else he could ever think of, to see this instead of you dead in sam’s arms. you might be the love of sam’s life, but that just makes dean all the more protective of you. to dean, you’re family, and you have been for a long time. that’s why he needs to get the two of you away from here, before anyone finds you and the dead body.

“sam,” dean interrupts, voice somehow both gentle and extra gruff, “we gotta go.” he knows sam can get you up on his own, but he still places a firm hand on your elbow as the two of you stand. he doesn’t want to let his hand fall away from you, but he does anyway. on the way out and to the car, you’re tucked safe into sam’s side, and dean’s got his gun in hand, ready to protect the both of you need be.

dean expects it when sam climbs in the backseat with you, just thankful to get away from the damned house and back to the motel. the ride is mostly silent, save the rumble of the engine, and sam’s hand stays securely wrapped around yours, itching to pull you even closer. you yawn and sam tugs at your hand, then drops his gaze to his lap when you look at him, offering to let you lie there. you can’t resist, because historically, your head in his lap has been heaven, and you figure that this time, after having heard him say “i love you,” it’ll be something better than heaven, something undiscovered and infinitely more precious than all the gold and silver in the world. so you drop your head to his thigh, and his hands are immediately on you. you’ve got the warmth of his palms on your head and your shoulder. your own hand is on his knee, taking in the feel of his time-worn jeans, and the muscle, sinew, and bone underneath.

you fall asleep, just 10 minutes from the motel, and sam doesn’t want to wake you, but you always do anytime he tries to carry you to bed.

he calls your name, all tenderness and sweet as he rubs your shoulder. you stir easily, only having fallen into a light slumber. the sigh you let out when you sit up is soft, and sam thinks it’s cute. then he thinks about the fact that, when you both settle down, he won’t have to hold that thought back. “you’re cute,” he can say, and make you both a little flustered before pressing a kiss to your lips. until then, he’s getting out of the car with you, only letting his hands stray from you when dean pulls you into a hug, right then and there. he holds you tight, showing you how scared he was too, so you squeeze back with extra care.

“don’t scare us like that again, kiddo. you got it?” he mumbles into the embrace. 

you nod, “i got it.” he lingers for a moment, then presses a quick kiss to the side of your head before parting and letting sam take over again.

he’s got a hand stuck to your back on the way into the room, all the way to the bed you shared last night. you don’t hesitate to peel off your dirty shirt and go to put on a new one, but sam’s already holding one out to you. dean disappears into the bathroom, despite not wanting to let you out of his sight.

you tug on the shirt, then collapse into bed, taking sam with you.

“you stink,” you complain lightheartedly, looking at him with honey-sweet love in your eyes. he wants to joke back, but he’s not quite there yet.

“i’ll shower after dean, if you want,” he offers, nothing but sincere. you smile at him, his nose inches from yours.

“but then you’d have to get up,” you say.

“sure, but if that’s what you want,” he repeats. he’d do anything for you, you think.

you shake your head. “that’s not what i want. i don’t want you to go. but i also want to fall asleep in your arms, and it sucks that you smell like blood, sweat, and nasty potions.”

“so what do i do, baby?” he asks, voice light, but you think he really means it. you melt at the pet name.

“hmmm,” you consider, truly not sure. you’re all quick in the shower after years of experience in motel bathrooms, but that still feels like such a long time to be away from him, especially since you should probably shower, too. you decide to suck it up. “you shower, then me. dean said the water was still hot yesterday, even when he went last.” you’re not sure when your voice dropped to a whisper, but it’s quiet now. he sighs, half disappointed, but knowing it’ll be much more comfortable that way.

the second you’re out of the shower and dressed, sam’s tugging you back into bed with him and tucking you into his chest. his hold is still protective and a little wary. you want to make him relax, so you wiggle away just a bit to look at his face.

“sam, i’m so hungry,” you complain. he smiles at you, thinking you’re too cute to resist when you whine just a little. and he just loves it when you say his name.

“you’re gonna make me get up again?” he asks, and you hold back a triumphant grin because his voice has turned pleasantly lighthearted.

“you’re gonna let me starve?” you tease back.

“fine,” he huffs, “we can go to the vending machine together.” he really doesn’t want to be far from you.

“no,” you protest, dragging out the ‘o’ just a little. “we had that earlier. and chips don’t count as a meal. poor dean probably hasn’t eaten at all today! we deserve a treat,” you argue.

sam can’t deny you anything you want in this moment. “we do,” he agrees, “what d’you want? maybe we can convince dean to pick it up for us.”

you smile. “mmm, that’s not fair. dean deserves a treat, too. i’ll satisfy myself with vending machine food for a few hours, then we can go out to an early dinner.”

“are you sure?” sam asks. you smile more.

“mhmm,” you nod. “i have the excuse to buy a candy bar too now.”

dean, splayed out on his own bed, has likely been listening in on this whole conversation, and graciously chosen not to interrupt. he smiles at you as you exit the room.

with a glance that no one’s around, sam slips his hand into yours as you make your way to the vending machine down the hall. your heart blooms at the feeling, at the way he’s been looking at you without shame and suddenly you realize you never said it back. sam punches in the number for an excessive amount of snacks, getting all of yours, his, and dean’s favorites, waiting til they all fall down to collect them. he bends over, gathering them all in his big arms and wide pockets and handing a few to you. the crinkling of plastic fills the quiet air as you watch him with a sort of worship and adoration dripping from your eyes. you take in the curve of his back, the peek of his spine that you get from his tshirt riding up a bit, and the pretty brown hair on the back of his head. when he stands, he catches that gaze, and for once you don’t hide it away or tuck it into that corner of the drawer where you keep all the little trinkets you don’t need, but can’t bear to get rid of. because you need this, and you can have this.

“i didn’t get to say it back.” your voice comes out hushed, reverent.

“say what?” he asks, matching his voice to yours without even trying. you take in all the subtle ways that his face changes, as he thinks about what you could mean. the left side of his mouth quirks down, just a bit, and his eyebrows pinch together. it’s not quite the expression he makes then he’s worried or upset, just thinking.

“i love you, too.” when those words finally escape, finally make themselves known and heard, everything is different. it’s like you’ve never really breathed before this, because the simplest of things, like an inhale that fills your lungs with stale motel air, is so good, so satisfying, so much better when he looks at you like that. “for as long as i can remember, sam, i love you. when we were kids at bobby’s, seventeen and getting soaked in the rain, every moment before then and every moment after, and–”

his lips are on yours and there’s a messy ruckus of plastic wrapped snacks being dropped to the floor, because he couldn’t care about anything except kissing you. his warm, rough hands are so gentle cupping your cheeks and pulling you into him, and you follow suit in disregarding the food in your hands to place them firm on his waist, almost squeezing his sides because you need this to be as real and as solid as it possibly can be.

some might question the merit of this being your first kiss with each other. but it’s so you and sam, standing in an empty motel hallway next to the vending machine and it’s crappy food scattered around your feet. plastic crinkling and rustling when you get closer, and a hunger so insatiable that it makes it hard to breathe.

when you finally break away, panting just a bit, sam’s eyes swim with concern as his mind flashes back to you just an hour ago.

“i’m okay,” you interrupt his paranoid thoughts and loop your arms around his neck, “i’m okay, sam. ‘s just you. baby, i know this is a horrible time to say this, but you always take my breath away, in the best way. you’re so pretty, and i’m so in love with you that when i look at you for too long, i forget to breathe, and–”

his lips are back on yours, telling you me too, me too, me too. saying as they push and mold against yours, you take my breath away and i love you for it.

[hitlikehammers]

Steve Harrington: The Boy Who Never Belonged Anywhere

🖤steddie🖤 — and yeah okay it does kinda start out w a little emotional whump (also please let me emphasize the TEMPORARY character death that MIGHT NOT EVEN BE REAL IN THE FIRST PLACE 👀)

To say Steve’s never felt like he belonged, like he ever really fit anywhere, would be inaccurate.

Because he’d have to know what it meant to fit somewhere at all, in order to know that he was failing at it, like, specifically.

Failure in general, though: that Steve is more than accustomed to. That is all his in fucking spades—and not for lack of trying for better. He watches the other kids at the piano recitals; he cannot perform sufficiently to escape his mother’s exasperation. He listens to his classmates, the ones from families his parents approve of, tries to learn their phrasings, their flippance, their disdain for things Steve doesn’t understand as deserving of the hate his parents show: still his father rages, still Steve weathers his disappointment as a rule. So he does try: less to fit, maybe, and more to blend. To be inoffensive. To maybe just…be forgotten. To fade into the backdrop.

Everything in his life, really, he does to this end: match them. Be like them. Be good but not too good. Don’t draw attention. Fit in, finally, if you’re lucky—someday.

Don’t aim to belong, lest you set yourself up for disappointment.

He knows enough of disappointment; he’s not interested in making any more.

So Steve swims where he stays in a lane, and he dribbles a ball in the confines of a court. Shoots it even, though he’s not always sure why it matters, but he chalks it up to the truth of ‘most things’: he doesn’t understand it because he doesn’t quite fit, and that’s probably explanation enough.

He sits at the table at lunch with the people from the families with names his parents don’t frown at. He makes his hair look like the actors in the magazines, the ones that enough people seem to like to merit a place on the cover, to earn the right to make money for a company because money is important—another thing Steve doesn’t wholly comprehend, but his father screams less when there is more money and screams a lot more when even a little bit of it is lost so Steve adds it to the list of things he’ll never understand because he doesn’t fit.

He dates, because that’s what everyone else does. It isn’t unpleasant. It’s more just a thing. He dates Nancy Wheeler because his father mentioned once that a prize hard won was a prize tripled in worth and Steve wants to do things that are worth something. Steve thinks maybe enough worth will mould him into the right shape. To fit.

He’s wrong, in the end.

But it ends up with him being confused instead, in gradual steps in the middle: he ends up being confused by wanting to protect.

He’s never really felt that urge before but it feels natural, and it feels stronger than other feelings do; than other ones have. Stronger than winning. Stronger than dating. Stronger than pleasure. Stronger than wanting.

He wonders—only briefly, but he does wonder—if this is what they mean when they talk about ‘fit’. If this is just another word for ‘belonging’. Like a…a cinnamonym. Or whatever it’s called.

It isn’t, he does ultimately realize, but it fills something in him anyway. It doesn’t make him fit everywhere, but it moulds him like Play-Doh, or silly putty, to fit…here. Maybe not perfectly. Maybe not as he’d dreamed or hoped. Maybe not like he imagined from all the stories and movies and shit. But.

It’s a kind of fit. Protecting is a type of belonging, he thinks. Yeah

It’s good. It’s a good thing.

But it really does cement the simple fact that everything in Steve’s life—whether it landed him closer or farther away from the idea of belonging in any of it, of being able maybe to live itself at all: but everything he chooses, everything he tries, everything he does and makes of himself, brings into being as proof that he’s here?

Is only ever for anything and anyone but himself.

He considers the kids as anomalies, as proof against the rule: they provide no social clout—in reality they damage his standing with the people his parents deem worth courting for opinion. They fill up Steve’s chest, though, but: it’s protection, first and foremost. The belonging of keeping safe.

Then there’s Robin, and she’s the closest he’s even known to something that could be other, something that could be new. Sometimes it feels like her cells are made of the same ill-fitting star-stuff that Steve’s cursed with but no part of Robin is a curse, Robin Buckley is only a gift and that makes it confusing, so confusing—

He still needs to protect her, above nearly all things, but the way she doesn’t merely fill his chest but comes to live inside it? That is new. And maybe Steve still doesn’t fit, or belong, but: Robin fits under his ribs, and he belongs inside hers just the same and…that might not be what anyone wanted from him. But it’s something.

And yeah, maybe circumstance chooses it for him first, but: he holds on of his own volition. It’s his own whole-ass choice to never ever let her go.

So it’s something.

Though: after—not long, but still after, long enough after that Steve knows a little what he’s looking for, the full-feeling that makes his ribs like a breastplate, that…that he protects with all that he is but maybe for the first time, also protects him. Make an armor of his chest and holds him close, makes him laugh and feel light, and see colors he didn’t know existed; makes him feel weightless like the ground’s no longer beneath his feet.

It’s this…undeniable taste of what it means to belong, and he knows that for reasons he cannot point toward or give a name to. But he knows. This is belonging.

Belonging, inside the one and only thing in Steve’s whole life that he has ever chosen for himself: the beautiful man with eyes beyond nighttime, elusive and enchanting, selling him something that might take the edge off, the sting of still failing to fit.

When he finds, over days, and then weeks, is that fit is exactly the word for how he falls into Eddie Muson’s arms, how his dick disappears between Eddie Munson’s lips, how Eddie’s slicked-up cock slides between the cleft of Steve’s ass—close, close but not yet, baby, not yet, let’s savor the journey there; this.

This is what it means to belong, with absolutely no reasons pushing him toward it, toward them; in fact maybe more reasons pull him back, even, because Eddie Munson is the opposite of the family names his parents approve of, Eddie Munson is the opposite of maybe anything that anyoneapproves of, at least among the people who care about approving at all and that’s…that’s maybe the most amazing thing Steve’s ever learned and found, this freedom, this beauty, this man and the soul of him like champagne if it were soda pop, common maybe but only on the surface, hidden from view and so so sweet, so so rich in ways that really matter but bubbling always, a constant carbonated effervescence in Steve’s heart and his lungs and his bones and his veins, it is something—

It’s one of the best and most incredible somethings Steve could possibly imagine.

And Steve chose it all for himself. Steve clings to it, savors it just like he’s asked—loves inside it, all for himself.

He thinks he wants to offer his heart to Eddie. He’s already lost it, he’s pretty sure of that, but…he thinks there’s something in giving it, in finding a tiny break in the fullness of his ribs to reach inside and cradle it like an offering.

And then the universe, or whatever makes certain that his world, his life, is shaped not-to-fit as a rule: it reminds him.

Because Eddie sees a cheerleader snapped in half. And Eddie’s on the run, but not into Steve’s arms. And Eddie’s separated from him, for no good fucking reason when his soul’s hurting, aching for in; when his heart’s ready to be offered, Steve found the crack, he’s reached in and he’s reaching out with it cupped in his hands, just, just please—

And then Eddie’s gone. Eddie’s dead. And nothing belongs. Nothing fits. Moving’s not made for here. Breathing’s anathema.

Steve’s heart falls to the ground, untended. Insignificant.

And when it’s all said and done, Steve looks at the sky, knows that’s not where the cause of any of this lies if there’s a cause to it at all, but he blinks, and he cannot cry because he’s drowning in the tears on the inside but they don’t fit here either, so all he can do at all is blink and he lets go: of the wanting. Of the trying. Of the pushing to be anything but what he is, and was always meant to be. Will never be anything other than.

I get it. I see it. This world is not for me. I will never find my place. I tried, I asked for more and I lost. I understand.

I won’t make the same mistake again.

Secretly, though, where he drowns in his tears inside the breastplate of ribs still so full even if the protection’s turned rusted, leant into decay: secretly—

He cannot let go of Eddie Munson. He may be lost, and he may be as much the provenance of soil and dust, of the creatures there begging to consume without any care or concept of all that he meant; all that he means: Eddie may be no more than bound to the same fate as the heart Steve dropped to that same dirt, let it get ground into the earth to decay with his beloved, to be there with him always the only way that’s left, but—

Steve does not fit, will never belong, yet despite everything: he cannot let go of Eddie Munson.

He can’t yet comprehend that might be for a reason, let alone a reason that might just fit.

...part 2? 🧚‍♂️

For @vthx, who requested a fusion of 'Character-Has-Powers / Changelings' and A Dustland Fairytale—The Killers at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson @theheadlessphilosopher

divider credits here

💫 ao3 link here

[hunterscabin]

Fever

Request: Hi! I love your writing :). Could you write one where the reader has a really high fever, increased heart rate (like Sam in the one episode) and the brothers have to bring it down and take care of her. - Anonymous

Pairings: Dean x Reader; Sam x Reader

Warnings: Sick reader; hurt/comfort; fluff; the tiniest pinch of angsty Sam 

Word Count: 1.8k

"Is she getting ready for a hunt or a date?" Dean paced in front of the Impala while fiddling with his gun. "These werewolves aren't gonna kill themselves."

Sam let out a soft chuckle. Dean wasn't a patient man, but he had a particularly hard time waiting on you. "I'll go see what's taking her so long."

"Y/N?" Sam called for you down the hallway. "Dean's getting antsy." He reached your room and knocked loudly. "Normally I'd enjoy watching him squirm, but we've got a head start on this pack. We should really get going."

When you didn't respond, Sam checked to see if the door was locked. It wasn't, so he nudged his way in to find you buried under your covers. "Y/N! What are you still doing in bed?"

You turned your head toward the door with a groan. Sam's tone softened when he saw your complexion.  

"Are you okay?" Sam asked, walking toward your bed.

"I think it's the flu." The simple act of rolling over had the room spinning, and you squeezed your eyes shut to quell the nausea.

Sam moved his hand to your forehead and was surprised by how warm you felt. "You're burning up."

"I don't think I'm going to be much help today."

Sam knelt down to see his own puppy dog eyes looking back at him. He rubbed his thumb across your forehead and gave you a sympathetic smile. "I'll be right back."

Sam returned with a glass of water and some cold medicine. He helped you sit up and handed you two small pills. You took them quickly and set the glass of water on your nightstand.

"Dean's gonna be pissed," you remarked nervously, as you nestled back into your mountain of pillows.

"Don't worry about Dean," he assured, tucking you in. "I’ll take care of him.”

You watched through hazy eyes as Sam disappeared into the bathroom to wet a washcloth. He came back, crouching next to the bed, and placed the cool towel on your forehead. You sighed at the small relief it provided.   

“We should be back in a few hours.” Sam picked up your phone from the nightstand and gave it a wave before placing it next to your pillow. “Call if you need anything"

You responded with a weak smile. Sam switched off your lamp and stood to leave. He turned back as s he closed your bedroom door and saw that you were already sleeping. 

"I'm gonna get cleaned up and then check on Y/N." Sam dropped his muddy boots by the door.

"Tell her she missed a good one." Both men were covered in the evidence of their successful hunt. “Let me know if I can get her anything.” Dean gave his brother a hearty clap on the shoulder and turned to his bedroom. 

A quick shower and a clean pair of clothes later, Sam was outside your room. Not bothering to knock, he pushed the door open and leaned against the frame.

"Feeling any better, Y/N/N?" Sam whispered. When you didn't say anything, he tried again, raising his voice. "Y/N/N?" 

Growing concerned at your silence, Sam moved into your room, his long legs closing the distance between you in three easy strides. When he reached the bedside table, he turned on the lamp. In the light, he could see a thin layer of sweat covering your face and neck. 

"Y/N." Sam lifted his hand to your forehead and was alarmed to find that your fever had worsened. When you didn't so much as stir at his touch, Sam started to vigorously rub your arm. "Y/N/N!"

Sam placed his fingers on your neck. Your heart rate was rapid, and in checking your pulse, he noticed your breathing was shallow. He tried to rouse you once more and when you still didn’t respond, panic rolled through him in waves.

“Dean!”

Dean had just shrugged a clean flannel over his shoulders when he heard Sam yell his name from the other side of the bunker. He immediately took off, haphazardly fastening buttons as he ran down the hallway. Dean heard his name a second time and followed his brother’s voice to your room. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of Sam hovered over you, trying to shake you into consciousness.

"She won't wake up." Sam's voice lilted in fear. 

Dean marched toward the bed, moving Sam aside. He cupped your cheek and winced at the heat radiating off of you.

"Y/N!" Dean shouted gruffly. He knew his attempt was in vain, but he was still heartbroken when you didn't respond.   

"Sammy, we have to get her fever down." Dean pressed two fingers to your neck, confirming what Sam already knew. "Her heart rate is way too high."

Dean ran through their limited options before instructing Sam to run a bath. Sam darted toward your bathroom without question.

"Not too hot, not too cold." Dean instructed at the sound of running water. 

"I've got it, Dean." Sam’s tone was strained and agitated. 

Dean pulled off your covers. The cool air hitting your damp skin was enough to stir you into a state of semi-consciousness. You let out a long moan. 

“Y/N?” Dean held your face in his hands, willing your eyes to open. 

You leaned into his touch but could only respond with another whimper. Dean sighed in defeat. 

“I’m right here, Y/N/N.” Dean soothed, gathering you in his arms. “I’ve got you.”

When Dean entered the bathroom, Sam quirked his head in apology. Dean nodded knowingly; whenever you were hurt or in pain, they were both on edge.  

You let out another groan and Sam immediately stood to check you. 

"Is she awake?"

"Barely." Dean shifted you in his arms and motioned for Sam to take you. 

Not wanting to embarrass or expose you, the brothers kept you in the tank top and sleep shorts you were wearing. Dean cuffed his jeans and straddled the side of the bathtub, one foot submerged in the water and the other securely planted on the tile floor. Once his brother was positioned, Sam gently lowered you into the tub. Dean leaned forward to help support you.

As soon as your body made contact with the water, your teeth began chattering and your intermittent whimpers became a steady cry. Both brothers could feel your body tense, and they grew concerned about your already racing heart. 

“You’re okay, Y/N/N.” Sam palmed your cheek. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

It felt like someone had replaced your eyelids with steel doors, and the energy it took to try and open them made you nauseous. When your Y/E/C eyes finally appeared, they were met with Sam’s relieved face.

“Hi, baby girl.” Keeping his eyes on you, Sam took his hand from your cheek and grabbed a washcloth. He dipped it in the lukewarm water before wringing it out with both hands.

You were becoming more alert with each passing moment, and seeing Sam at the other end of the bathtub made you realize that he wasn’t the one keeping you upright. In any other instance you would have immediately assumed Dean was behind you, but the fever had made you incoherent, and your normal instincts were inaccessible. Anxiety swept through you at the thought of being held by a stranger in your vulnerable state, and you began to fight against Dean.

Sam saw you crane your neck to see who was behind you and understood your confusion.

“Y/N,” he dropped the washcloth and grabbed your hands, “Y/N/N, look at me. You’re okay. It’s Dean.” 

“It’s me, sweetheart.” Dean shifted so that you could see him. “It’s just me.”

It took you a moment to register Dean’s face, but once you knew it was him, you let out a shaky breath and relaxed into his arms. 

“That’s my girl.” Dean leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, relieved to feel that your feverish skin was cooling. “I’ve got you.”

Sam grabbed the floating washcloth and ran it over your face and arms. He stopped momentarily to check your pulse. The steady beat of your heart on his fingertips reassured him, and he nodded to Dean that the bath was helping. 

Once he was satisfied with your temperature, Dean lifted you out of the tub and placed you in his brother’s arms. Sam wrapped you in a warm towel and held you close before sitting you on the stool in front of your vanity. 

"Y/N?" Your tired eyes met his. "Do you think you can get yourself out of these wet clothes?"

You mumbled incoherently but found the strength to pull yourself to your feet. You gripped the counter top, and Sam helped steady you while you found your balance. 

"I'm going to hang your robe on the door." Sam closed the door and stood vigilant on the other side, ready to charge back in at the first sign of any distress. 

Gravity’s hold prayed on your weakened state, and every step, every reach was painfully exhausting. Time felt as languid as your movement, but after much effort, your wet clothes laid in a heap on the floor, and you had almost successfully wrapped yourself in your robe.

Thinking you had been quiet for too long, Sam knocked on the bathroom door, and you gave a small hum, letting him know he could enter. He opened the door to find you fumbling with the terry cloth belt.  

"Let me help, Y/N/N." His voice was soft and comforting. Once he secured the knot, he lifted you in his arms and carried you back into your room. 

Your head lolled to find Dean tucking clean sheets under the mattress. He smiled at the sight of you in Sam's arms, snuggled in your fluffy robe. 

"Thank you, Dean." you murmured. 

"Anytime." Dean winked as he pulled back the comforter, and Sam sat you on the edge of the bed. Dean handed Sam two small pills and a fresh glass of water. You took the medicine from Sam's hand, and he brought the water to your lips. 

A shiver ran through your body, and Sam lifted the collar of your robe before easing you onto your pillow and pulling the covers over you.

“Sammy?” Sam smiled, thankful that you’d regained enough strength to speak. “Stay, please.”

“Of course.” Sam brushed the hair away from your face and dropped a kiss on the top of your head before moving to sit in your reading chair.

“You too, De.”

“I’m right here, sweetheart.” Dean sat down on the trunk at the end of your bed and reached up to rub your leg.  

Their comforting presence allowed you to relax, and you quickly surrendered to sleep. No illness could compete with the love of Sam and Dean Winchester.

Masterlist

[orpheuscas]

“Dean.” A creak of the floor as Cas pushes himself to standing. Then the dip of the mattress as Cas settles on the edge of it. His voice is closer when he says, “I’m worried. Please tell me what’s going on.”

Even if he were able to speak, he doesn’t know how he would explain this to Cas. Everything is just so much, and how can he make Cas understand that?—Cas, who created galaxies, who witnessed all of human history from its very beginning, who even now could crumble skyscrapers into dust with one withering look. Dean doesn’t have the strength today to sit up in bed. He doesn’t know how to explain this to a being more powerful than he can possibly comprehend.

“I’m tired,” he says finally.

Even the half-truth is so shameful that it makes tears burn behind his still-shut eyelids.

[dean is having a bad time. cas is there for him. read on ao3]

[zepskies]

Series Masterlist - Never Say Goodbye

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F. Reader

Summary: The first time you and Dean sensed each other’s thoughts and feelings, you were just kids. It would take years to realize that you both were bonded for life, and even longer to finally meet. **(18+ only) | [Soulmate AU]

Series Tags/Warnings: Soulmate AU set in season 1 & 2, romance and fluff, hurt/comfort, angst, smut, and more chapter-specific tags. Could be considered a "fix it" fic (you'll see).

Part 1 - Proximity

Part 2 - Connection

Part 3 - Contact

Part 4 - Guessing Game

Part 5 - Self Defense

Part 6 - Trust Building

Part 7 - First Touch

Part 8 - Long Distance

Part 9 - Intensive Care

Part 10 - Worthy

Part 11 - Soul Bond

Part 12 - Home

Epilogue

Series is complete!

Bonus Tracks:

(3-Part Sequel)

#1: Disturbing the Peace

#2: One Last Hunt

#3: To Be Loved

Side B Tracks:

(Bonus One-Shots)

The Old-Fashioned Way You and Dean are having trouble trying to start a family. What happens when you turn to a spell for a possible solution?

Ko-Fi Me ☕

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Dean Winchester Series List

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

[szlez]

Stay - destiel fanfic by ani_ona and me with my fanart Feverish

Written for https://sicktember.tumblr.com prompt. Dean & Cas

Stay

It was Sam, who noticed first. Knowing every muscle of his brother's face and years of studying every one of his tiniest expressions helped, but at the end of the day it was due to that unexplainable connection between the two of them. The strange force that made his time at Stanford less enjoyable and more sleepless. So now he just knows that something is wrong with his brother. And when Dean orders his beloved chili fries and doesn't suck in every last bit in a matter of minutes, Sam and Cas exchange worried looks.

Their case is solved, dinner finished, and they are in for a 9-hour drive home. Another cue that something is not just as it should be is when Dean decides to let Sam drive after an hour and doesn't take a shotgun seat but joins Castiel in the back instead. When Sam glances in the rear mirror, he sees his brother's head resting on the angel's shoulder and the intense stare of the blue eyes.

Dean doesn't wake up the whole ride home. Cas somehow manages to arrange him into a more lying position, with his head on the angel's lap. Sam would have smiled at the sight if he wasn't focused on keeping his eyes open and on the road.

They reach the bunker at dawn, and Dean lets Castiel maneuver him out of the car and down the stairs.

“Get him to his room,” Sam says, his voice hoarse from not using and tiredness. “And I’ll bring some supplies.” Cas just nods and adjusts his grip around Dean's waist. He is taking off the hunter's shoes, when Sam comes in with water and some pills.

“Looks like he is going down with something…” Cas murmurs, letting the back of his palm touch Dean's cheek. He frowns and crouches beside the bed to lightly press his lips to Dean's forehead. “Definitely. His fever is high.” He whispers, now real concern lacing his voice.

The gesture looks a lot like a kiss. Dean would undoubtedly freak out if he was awake. But now Sam is too tired to analyze it further.

“Make sure he drinks a lot. And takes these once he is conscious enough.” he points to the meds. “Want me to stay with you?”

“No, Sam, I got this, you drove the whole night, go get some sleep.”

Sam nods and leaves, though he feels strange. He's never left his brother's side during an illness. Even as a child, he used to cling to his brother when any of them was unwell. Perhaps it had something to do with losing the only source of safety and care. Now Dean has his angel, Sam tells himself, lowering his pounding head onto the pillow. He is out in a few minutes.

In the meantime, Castiel frees Dean of most of his clothing, careful with every movement, expecting the hunter to shove him away and yell. But he doesn't react more than with a quiet sigh, and feeling his skin radiating unnatural heat makes Castiel worry even more. He tries to wake Dean up, but only succeeds in making him swallow some pills without choking. When the fever is still high, regardless of the meds, Castiel's anxiety reaches a dangerous level bordering panic. What if he is doing something wrong? Or not doing enough? He stares at the pale face of his friend, thinking. Dean would know what to do. He always does. Dean dealt with countless of Sam's childhood illnesses, even more wounds requiring various types of stitches, his father's drunken fits and hangovers. But now it's Dean who needs help, and Cas feels uncertain and incompetent. Afraid that he could make things worse. What is he supposed to do? Should he go get Sam?

Dean stirs in his sleep, and Castiel's train of thoughts is interrupted. He focuses on his friend, whose brow frowns, and his whole body tenses under the covers. Hands grip the sheets tightly and suddenly he opens his eyes wide, staring terrified and unseeing through the ceiling, breathing shallow, quick breaths. What is he seeing, Cas can only guess, but he is afraid he can guess correctly.

“Hey… Easy…” Cas reaches for Dean's hand and feels fingers clutching his wrist like a lifeline. “Whatever you see, it's not real. You are safe here, with me. It's just a dream. It's not real.” Cas whispers over and over again until Dean rests his head on the pillow and falls asleep, not letting go of his angel’s hand.

So until he loosens his grip, Castiel has no other option but to sit down on the floor by the bed and try to make himself comfortable. He feels Dean’s quick pulse under his fingertips and watches an unhealthy blush coloring hunter's cheeks. After what feels like hours the idea pops into Cas’ mind, and he makes a quick run to the sink with a handful of handkerchiefs. As soon as the wet cloth touches hot skin, Dean shudders violently and makes a little sound close to whimper. Cas's heart tightens. He puts his hand on Dean's cheek to calm him down, and the hunter leans into the touch as if trying to find some relief. The angel sits on the bed and cradles Dean's head, wanting to absorb the heat, illness, and pain.

“You are going to be ok, I'll take care of you.” He whispers to the unconscious man and feels Dean's chaotic fear and suffering flooding him, leaving him breathless. He has to do something, anything, to help, and fast. The echo of Dean's headache pounding in his own skull.

Dean is drifting in and out of consciousness, never lucid enough to hold a real conversation, just searching the space with glassy eyes that close with relief once he makes sure Castiel is with him.

“You are not alone,” Castiel tells him, knowing very well that Dean won't remember anything. “You won't be anymore.”

Hours go by and Castiel fills his time with wiping Dean's face, trying to get some water into him, changing cold compresses, and constantly checking the temperature. With zero improvement so far. Why is nothing working?

Finally, Cas knows he can't delay it anymore and a decision has to be made now. It's been hours and they haven't made any progress. Dean is exhausted and completely out of it from pain and fever, and Cas can't look at his dry lips and glistering, unseeing eyes any longer. It's time to take serious steps.

Dean is heavy. The dead weight of his nearly unconscious body is hard to carry. But not for the angel, who lifts him with ease, just like all these years before when they were leaving Hell. Castiel carefully lowers his trembling burden into the tube, and Dean immediately curls into a tight ball, shivering uncontrollably. Cas starts the lukewarm water and strokes Dean’s chest and back,

“Easy… try to relax” he murmurs, enfolding the hunter's arms. “This is going to help, you will feel better soon, just relax.” And finally, Dean does. Once the tube is filled, he straightens his legs and seems to be drifting off again. He slides a little and would go under if it weren't for Castiel’s grip.

“I’ve got you,” the angel sighs softly. “Don't worry, just relax and rest” he whispers, gently rubbing his chest and stomach in a slow circular motion.

This could be so much fun in different circumstances, Castiel thinks to himself, taking in his lover’s slim, muscular figure under the clear surface… What is he thinking about?!, he scolds himself immediately. It's definitely not a good time for such things. He has to admit to himself that he appreciates the sight before his eyes, though. 

Returning to the bedroom is surprisingly difficult because Dean, now somewhat conscious and wrapped tightly in the biggest towel the bunker can offer, insists on going on his own. This proves to be not the best idea when after a few steps his legs fail to support him, and he is forced to accept Castiel's outstretched arm reluctantly. 

The angel doesn't speak much now when Dean is able to comprehend what is being said to him. Helping Dean change into fresh clothes, and passing him pills and a glass of water, Cas carefully observes his patient, not daring to think that the worst is over now. Once Dean dozes off again, his fever rises a few degrees but only to break after a few hours, leaving the hunter drenched in sweat, weak and tired but finally fully awake and aware of his surroundings.

Seeing Dean putting on his T-shirt without help convinces Cas that his job is finished. He stands up slowly, mutters some “I’d be going” and turns to leave. That's when his hand is gripped one more time this night.

Cas catches Dean’s gaze lucid at last and though the man doesn’t utter a sound, the angel can hear one word, clear as a bell: Stay.